Cleaning out the house

Cleaning house this morning, I found these two [somewhat old] poems. Of course, the real issue is, what am I doing up so early on a Saturday?

Herewith:

It was one of those nights
that wraps itself up—
your red shirt that
turns all my clothes to pink
and I wouldn’t mind
but all you offer is some strangely named drink
ordered just to impress
our waiter. Cuban margaritas this time—equal
parts rum lime amaretto
no tequila or salt.
Not even a margarita, really,
So, what is it that you call love? Last week
it was a dirty martini, which tasted of
oceans and gulls, circling above
and gazing too intently
to see what they could scavenge.
Well, take it all.
I’ve nothing left to give
save myself, which you have not seen
and there are names for that too.


still life with blue

You will remain
forever changing, forever
remaining consistent in that. It’s comforting,
in a way. In the same way our collective silence is
provided it’s punctuated by the sound
of a garbage truck moving up our street
slowly making the week’s refuse smaller and
smaller until it's gone. There’s some solace in that
as there is in Sunday mornings in winter
in air that tastes of embers
and in you sleeping late, allowing the garbage
to remain uncollected, allowing birds to sift through
it for the perfect length of blue yarn to make
their nests home.