vacances

How is your holiday anyway?

Your quiet quiet-so-quiet domesticity

Are you enjoying casseroles of mixed beans, baked in their juice?

the occasional fried pork-chop, side of red-boiled onions.

Have you filed down your nailes?

A courtesy to your wife’s cunt

or is that a once, twice, or thrice a year whoopee?

Whoopee.

Yippee for you.

You still have one foot in my door though, don’t you.

The occasional tug at the line

just to see if you will find

what you want, that is me, there and waiting –

your ego reassurance on reserve.

And whet when you leave your domestile

when perhaps it is safer to send word

and you want to resume your twice, thrice weekly calls

to play the role of backward lover

to label me your coy mistress

to have me marvel at all that you are

you will or may not find out

that I am or am not there at the other end,

kicking shoes shuffling waiting, this or gone walking.

Oh, I remember how we missed those two weeks.

I have no convenient amnesias

Why even I remember that, once-upon-a-time,

(like any fairy-tale)

that is, that is we, that is me-you, mean more than this.

But like any fairy-tale there must be beauty, there must be danger.

Beauty threatened, she is sad, sealed, shy,

hermetic, retiring, sleeping, flat –

only awakaened only with a kiss

did I hear you say... a passionate embrace?

I thought I had… did I understand but then…

By the hand white-knuckled bone, you led me

to the heart dark of the wood, where and you left me unkissed,

lost you crossed me, putting me back where I belonged,

praying i'd just disappear, go back to sleep -

some epileptic fugue state, that’s all.

I always thought of us as a partita

solo violin – Bach – e minor

Instead with you it’s hit and miss.

Perhaps even miss and miss.

Tell me, we are friends anyway -

How was your holiday?

Let's speak politely over tea.

Let us pretend we never were ....

more than this...

you do not have more than this to offer.