Do-Over
Washing a last dish,
I think of the man that I love.
I think of the way his lips
Must have touched this glass
Just moments before he turned
To leave and closed the door
Behind him,
The way his hands must have
Moved over the doorknob,
The last gleam
Of his backward glance as
He edged toward the doorstep.
How many men have I sized up
By the way their fingers
Lifted a plate,
A utensil?
By the way their lips
Touched a coffee cup?
Each dish,
A memory,
Scrubbed clean.
Each piece of china,
An eternal symbol of
What each man meant.
Each sudsy bath,
A chance to
Do things over.
I think of the man that I love.
I think of the way his lips
Must have touched this glass
Just moments before he turned
To leave and closed the door
Behind him,
The way his hands must have
Moved over the doorknob,
The last gleam
Of his backward glance as
He edged toward the doorstep.
How many men have I sized up
By the way their fingers
Lifted a plate,
A utensil?
By the way their lips
Touched a coffee cup?
Each dish,
A memory,
Scrubbed clean.
Each piece of china,
An eternal symbol of
What each man meant.
Each sudsy bath,
A chance to
Do things over.
posted by Andrea at
11:57 PM
3 Comments:
Yay, poetry on the blog--definitely needed and appreciated. I really like the take on do-overs, a place I never considered until I read this poem. Thanks for sharing.
By
Donna Sewell, at 8:24 PM
I LOVE that poem. I'm a body-parts kinda gal. for example, I notice forearms (my dentist has the sexiest).
By
Chere, at 12:13 PM
Chere....That's a little odd. Don't think I have ever thought about the sexiness of a forearm. I have to agree though; this poem rocks. I love the take on the topic.
By
Adam, at 9:31 PM
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