Tuesday, April 13, 2010

Tonight's Sonnet is a Dish Best Served Cold

He has plans, detailed plans.
When he gets home, he can see it in his mind.
Unlocking the door, climbing the stairs.
Muffled by the thwack of ceiling fans,
movement, scent of orange rinds
being grated into tea. Pulls out a chair
and sits, drinking. She asks, can you reach those pans?
After he kisses her, how did I find
this treasure? It's all so clear
to him. He has plans, detailed plans.
He wants tonight to be all kinds
of celebration in the apartment up there.
Only-it's quiet. He looks around. Nothing. No one. Gone.
Drinks a six-pack, then another. When she returns, she, she too, is alone.

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