NaPoWriMo #12

Excuse Me, When Will My White Sweater Be Clean?

The white haired woman asks little
of the white haired man. Nothing more
than dry cleaning,
first name,
drink temperature.
I know they are together.
They ambled in together
the dapper man in the pinstripe shirt and loafers
chose their seats,
delivered her latte.
They are seated in adjoining chairs
a newspaper,
a library novel
between them.

Like a red cardinal and his bland mate,
they are feeding together.
Here together,
leaving me to believe
she is faraway
even as she is here.
(I have heard of this place
a city where you are all alone
even as the crowds gather.)

Each to their own branch.
He is her caretaker.
First the boy next door
then her lover
(maybe)
(because they are of a certain generation),
after all
then her husband.
Perhaps her lucky enemy
for a time,
and now her nursemaid.
He has brought her out for coffee,
keeping her part of the real world.
(There is little chance the white haired man
will drink it down, spit it up
for his addled bird).

Of course this could be the fairytale.
Maybe he has been keeping her holed up
in their attic,
rolling around in mothballs
strung out on moldy cheese
and homemade wine.

Maybe the pair have been coupling
like mad rabbits
fiery agile sex
the next generation would kill for.

We just never know where our neighbors have been,
where our neighbors are going,
what part of their body has been kissed last.


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A very rough draft. Rougher than I've ever posted. That's what you get on a short break between art classes. But, I sort of enjoy the rushed writing, trying to get it all down without too much reflection.