Not given to unicorns and eloquent language,
my melodrama is fueled with common things:
more bad news from the media,
a baby possum murdered by the cats,
the shattered precious wine glass from a dwindling set.
Friends fall like drying petals from a bougainvillea vine,
the world grown more cruel
not only from the brutalities of age,
but by the decisions of short-sighted power-brokers
throwing out the baby with the bathwater.
(The choice of that inelegant, time-worn phrase
the result of too many months of isolation—
giving up first the makeup and the hairbrush,
then the bra,
then the bother of digging
for the perfect unique metaphor.)
Cities of books and projects
started but not finished,
albums full of photos I mean to scan,
pile up on tables
and the floor.
over the terraza
by the still-laid table,
obscuring tiny shards
of delicate glass.
Click on photos to enlarge.