Holding napkins to their candy lips
the ladies paused,disturbed-
then blamed the alcohol.
They returned,
without further comment
to the rhythmic assault
of cutlery on white china;
Their smooth necks glittered with opulence.
His hand was steady,
Absolutely manicured
And so It was strange
That he would lift a bottle of red
And fill his half-glass of white
to the rim.
He held it aloft perfectly
(his hand was perfect)
but offered no toast.
He let it fall,the glass;
The crystal destroyed itself wetly
on the floor,
'there,' he said,
'is the birth and the color of birth
where all tears are wept at once.'
YOU ARE READING
Small Silver Fish
PoetryA growing work of poetic exploration,this small volume explores life long struggles of a poet groping for evolution.
