I watched the back of his hand slightly fold,
The coffee slightly smug along the kitchen table,
His newspaper neatly folded,
Socks matching the beige tiles of the second floor.
I tried to make conversation
For the silence was stale, uncomfortable
As if we were cousins,
Maybe even neighbors
Searching for something interesting to say.
But, I just sat there,
Like the pigeons do
As they sit with their web feet
Overlooking the novelty
Of the world as it comes and goes.
He was torn to bits
But this was his way of coping
Of telling himself
That his inner thoughts could
Divert his eyes from the door upstairs
The door to another floor
where the white linens
smelled like vanilla,
of old love, buried,
sold to the teller in the sky
where the eagles never return.
So he turned his thoughts to the kitchen
Page after page
His face never changing
The same way mine use to stay so still
Sleeping on my right side as a young child.
Just he and the kitchen
His round wooden table,
Where the kitchen seemed to notice a missing scent
A voice locked away
to the door to another room.
[This message has been edited by Tomer (12-29-2010 04:39 PM).]