...the letter killeth, but the spirit giveth life...

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

S.P. Poem #34: Who Knows?

Who knows why we’re here?

Figuratively speaking, I mean.

She said this with a glass in her hand.

She said this with an absence of malice.

She said this in a strapless dress, before taking my hand and touching it to the polished, wooden table.

It was cool and smooth.

The situation is familiar, as is the phrasing.

It has been lifted from books, movies, and commercials.

It’s been devised for getting something started:

The woman, her glass and my hand, the milled tree, the question.

I am untranslatable the old man said, but

I am easily translated.

I am yawpless and closed-roaded.

The dress, you will have guessed, is black.

The table’s a tree, translated.

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