RSS Feeds

Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Cleaning House

My mind has cleaned its shelves.
It has dusted and washed,
and thrown out its ornaments,
smells of last night,
a year ago,
along with a woman’s smile
saved for special times,
when I’m sad
and have no place to go.

Good times thrown in boxes,
birthdays, vacations, trysts,
dreams that melted in telling.
Everything gone,
fragments of letters, receipts.
The place has a hollow ring.
Even the air is empty.

I am a new possibility of sorts.
I can comb my hair in a different direction,
change my attitude,
see things with a vanilla flavor,
take up dancing.
For that is what a mind is,
what’s in it,
what’s cooking.

The shape of things to come
inside wishes,
and yes,
when you know everything
has been given away,
you meet the day without pretense.
And the first thing you need
is someone to hold,
with lips
as hungry as your own.

Comments are closed.