Patricia Henriques | + Follow Poet |
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I Know It's Not So

I know it is not so
but I have the clear feeling
that at any moment
you will open the door
with your noisy key ring,
and I will hear distinctly
the off-key sound
of your slow and heavy steps
that no longer drag slowly
through my living room hall
which is now silent,
mute in its halftones. 
I know it's not so
but you will put down your bag
stuffed with papers in confusion,
on the table set for two
even though we are four,
but two of us will be in the bedroom
and won't want to dine, but
we will steal from your plate,
and you'll get upset
but you don't know how to fight,
and the argument will end with the providential
increase in the volume of the television,
that now is full of silly programs
because nothing is fun anymore.
Life drags on,
empty in its own apathy. 
You will talk about your day,
and you'll ask about ours,
and I'll be in a hurry,
going out to some rehearsal.
I'll shout that I can't right now,
that tomorrow I won't go out
and in the morning, making the strong, black coffee,
we'll talk about the script,
you'll give me some ideas 
I'll love to slip into the context
althought now this actress
no longer cares how she performs
because the fantasy is gone,
the scene has no more magic
and just repeats itself alone
on the stages I no longer trod. 
You'll ask,
and I'll help you put on your socks
having you sit on the bed
while our cat snores
in a light ending sleep.
Yet, you'll play with me
in your special way
that makes any single day
seems like Christmas,
with your salad sauce
that no one any longer tastes.
The 25th hides its face
at midnight, Jesus is not born
and the miracle is not the same. 
On Valentine's Day
you will buy two roses,
one of them you'll give to mom
and the other one is always mine
for I'll always be your little girl
who doesn't have a boyfriend anymore,
who has no joy, and
who counts the hours of the day
just to know the day has gone. 
I know it's not so
but I'll see you at any moment
when I lay my eyes
on our garden,
missing your confident hands
pruning its dead branches
like now it is dead our house. 
And like me,
our cat waits for you
every night at eight o'clock
under the doorjamb,
on the rug in the hall,
to say you are welcome,
to be happy you are home,
but our expectations fail,
for your arrival is delayed,
you won't arrive at all,
and there's no more future
for there's no more noise
of your key ring in the knob.

Copyright © Patricia Henriques | Year Posted 2007

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