To PRC
The sound of the washing machine
in the night, reflection on the window
pane of the festive green light
on the backyard, the gloomy
historical thriller running on the screen
past the leaning plastic Christmas tree;
how I yearn your feverish flesh
beside my cold and aching bones
on this night of the bleak midwinter
of our spiralling middle-aged lives,
but that is part of some other timeline,
where I am what I and you needed;
in this I have that music of the
washing machine, the sickly green
reflection, a fictional Edgar Allan Poe
I could disembowel with my whittle,
the sad little plastic Xmas tree,
but not you, not you my lost one, to
cover with your burning flesh
my cold and aching bones.
07.01.2023
#Poem #Poems #Poetry #Verse
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