a misty memory rises
from a voice that never grates
it rings me on
an antique telephone
in my early morning
as sons begin to rise and the world
in once bohemian clifton
of telford and ludlow streets
if i stand and close my eyes
i can’t remember to forget
starry eyed little boys
eating blackberry chocolate chip ice cream
with perpetual eagerness in a concrete park
across the walk
the lights atop their poles
cast shadows in full sunlight
like a magritte painting
there is an oddness within the realism
flower pots along the sidewalk
grow jessamine county blossoms
inside the velvet petals
germinates the secret of how to kiss
i place my fingers to his mouth
the other hand behind his neck
he wears a derby
and counts the days spent at church hill downs
this mount is the auburn home of the taft family
but it is us who have made history
in the rain
dodging determined traffic
with a new york times for an umbrella
we make our way to biagio’s bistro
plotting double barrelled espresso
and italian cakes
after on the house tabs are paid
and go behind the bar and make it yourself
old country mother’s eye contact
manhattans are made
arm in arm old lovers
make their way past the esquire theatre
upon the marquis the black swan
and rocky horror which you are never
you lead me into pangea
where we broach wuthering heights
a moss stone reminder of longing
for that day
we argued in the street
and i loved you enough
to take your hand as you looked at me
with bedroom sighs
and drag you up the stairs
i used my lavender ribbon ringed keys
to turn a crystal door knob
and find an opera
4 replies on “the gaslight”
keep it up.
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Nice written…. yes the words are lovely.
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