Details |
Sherry Thrasher Poem
He nods towards a table between the hibiscus
and other flowering plants,
a bit more removed from the racket of passing cars,
the tiny music of forks tapping porcelain dinner plates.
Her eyes spy artwork for sale
hung across mustard-colored walls.
He wants Amore: flatbread
covered with baby spinach,
sliced tomatoes,
melted feta and provolone.
She searches for something more exotic:
can almost taste the tumbling of arugula
and gorgonzola dripped in a vinaigrette
of pear and thyme. Or perhaps
the portobello lasagna,
its cream sauce surrounding
layers of spinach and mozzarella
to go with a glass of good white wine.
But he insists on the flatbread
and places her menu aside,
doesn't catch the shrug
or her wandering eyes.
Tab plus tip: $31.95. Or a bargain
for pride—unaware the real cost
of ordering the pizza was her
disinterested sigh.
Copyright © Sherry Thrasher | Year Posted 2008
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Details |
Sherry Thrasher Poem
It was by chance our paths had crossed
that cold December day;
a love I might have had, but lost,
the one that slipped away.
I reached to kiss a ruddy cheek,
his old endearing smile;
the sight of him had turned me weak,
though only for a while.
The words he spoke I can't recall,
our spark had gone astray;
for in the past we'd said it all,
so much to my dismay.
He claimed, one day, he'd like to meet,
though he would never call;
the weatherman predicted sleet,
but tears began to fall.
Good seeing you again, old friend,
then said he could not stay;
I felt the blister of the wind
and watched him walk away.
A heart that had begun to thaw,
then started to refreeze;
I drew my overcoat in awe
of winter's frigid breeze.
Copyright © Sherry Thrasher | Year Posted 2008
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