Friday, 16 October 2009
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Ghost
In the middle of the afternoons
she lays out her dead lover's clothes on the bed:
a green plaid jacket, white t-shirt, dark blue denim jeans
with holes at the heels and at the knees.
A heavily broken-in pair of sneakers
patiently rest on the floor, side by side.
She watches the clothes like they might come alive,
flesh filling the hollows of the soft fabrics
the way air might inflate wilted sails.
Now, she smokes a cigarette in her underwear
folded into a chair on the far end of the room,
while the clothing lay vacant, expectant.©BLBruce, 2009
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Comments (5)
@apoetathome - I appreciate the kind words. Thank you.
Perhaps this is a way to remember the dead ones. Nice poem.
Returning to this. I like it -- and I didn't comment on it before. You know that it takes a certain mood to reflect or respond. It is so much of a painting, or the quiet photographer's pan, a cowboy film noir and the woman-in-underwear leans us to intimacy, rawness, speaks of a relation. But then there is this missing thing -- an image of the man himself, not only the vaguer attributes from his residual clothing-- i want to know something of him, then I will understand her better, and the expectancy. Maybe there should be a second version? bw, Santiago
@santiagodeco - Yes, thank you. I have actually been working on a few second drafts of this to somewhat express the missing elements to this piece. I will post the edited version shortly. :]