On Her Porch
ON HER PORCH,
she rocks after dinner,
and flurries of stardust sprinkle her
sterling. Inside, the dog, snug
on the still-warm Eames,
shudders with dream and, in the tub,
her prince of a husband soaks,
swirls of pipe smoke
crowning his damp, curly mane.
She rocks, and nostalgia reigns
over night beneath moonlight.
Breathless, alit with old flame,
she goes back
inside and is struck by the sight
of his majesty’s limp curls,
white — not that bewitching black
in the locket of this once starry-eyed girl.
Copyright © Ruth Sabath Rosenthal | Year Posted 2014
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