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Daily Chore
May 23, 2013
He used to call her pretty
and she used to make the beds,
hang her heart on the laundry line
to sway in wind
and words
said underbreath.
Whispers of 'I love you'
have long put to rest,
whisked away on a summer breeze,
left like dust on the old oak chest.
But she still does the dishes,
and he still smokes cigars,
smoke and suds rising high
between kissing spaces
left behind
in the presence of want for more,
and the absence of love's
daily chore.
© Alyssa B., Forest Hills, NY
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