Shrill Sweet Sadness
The teapot whistling on the stove
reminded him of what had been
in settled domesticity
when they were only twenty-three.
The baby crying in the crib
the teapot whistling on the stove
the way her apron hugged her hips
the sparks that flew between their lips
creating scenes of bliss and strife.
And when she ceased to be his wife
the teapot whistling on the stove
was silenced, packed and stored away
in hopes of coming better days
with someone who would understand
the poignant songs brewed deep within
the teapot whistling on the stove.
Copyright © Nancy Jones | Year Posted 2011
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