the buzzing fly. Sit down and drink high tea
in my garden parlor before sun set.
The cozy is on the pot; the water boiled
hot, the honey, spices and sliced lemon
laid in casual abandon beside
the silver carafe, bone china dish and cup,
a fine linen cloth damask etched in rose,
appointed with silver; a candle glows
beside a single pink decanted rose.
Ah, the last fragrance on the summer air.
Welcome, my dear! A sweet cake and a cup
to lift the spirits! A wild distraction
and a tranquil moment of true passion
before the roaring routine resumes its
wild vengeance like a swift effacing hand,
dashing the crystalline moments into
fragmented diamonds carelessly scattered
across the sun filled floor, shimmering shards
sparkle in random array, glimmering.....
Ah, yes. But I digress. My dear, how is
your lumbago? Do your treatments ease pain?
Or are the tonics merely masks of joy,
temporarily soaring before your eyes,
disappearing at sun set, when you plunge
back into the abyss? There is no escape
from the journey of a black memory
irretrievably bound with the choking
iron band of harsh, incompatible
servitude. I see you have forsaken
your wedding brand--poor naked, bare finger--
no protection from the storms--a dumb smooth
circle below the knuckle--no token
of the recent woe. Your smile betrays you.
The lumbago is not so bad you say.
How very good for you. Yes, it is true
other gay distractions make us forget
those old dalliances under the faded moon
of last weeks old affairs. Dear, would you share
a touch of gin or scotch in your teacup
to whet the whistle as they use to say
in the old days before daddy sailed off
into the setting sun chasing sudden
iridescent blue phantoms of delight?
Oh, not even a drop is it? Not one?
You must go now! So soon? We have barely
just begun! Of course, aren't we all expected
before the next bold hour is out of reach?
How fleeting is the moment, how swift--
the clouds fill the sky and day passes to
night at the click of your tea cup and spoon.
Take the rose dear. It suits our passionate moods.
Hark, it too, like the sun, the day, the hour
the minute, slips into oblivion,
a broken shard strewn on our garden paths.
Your wrap, such a fine color--suits your hair.
Do be careful on the stairs--do not fall.
What's this? A kiss on my cheeks as you leave
my bright room this late sunny, summer day,
ends our dalliance at high afternoon tea.
John Daleiden
9-21-99
Oblique: A Poetry Journal Copyright © 2005 John Daleiden You Are Visitor Number
