all that fades
one day it will vanish; you
know this, it inevitably comes to pass
the way soaping each other down
in the shower, you
let it slide
as he goes down on one knee
the first of your slender feet in his hands
accepting of touch
the way the small of your back
curves
into his towel-dry massage
one day, there will be almost nothing
whether it was love or not,
the sex, the good sex
a written word
the overwhelming way
you felt.
who decides
in this strange world of arbitrary
design, who decides which children are poetic
which ones are not
who makes it into a poem, which
ones do not
is it the blind girl who twirls
in casted sunrays across your living room floor
and you silently watch, wonder
how it is her movements
seem more poetic than
another's
more than the boy in class
subjected to sibling incest
who turns to you
for help
with his grade three project on
"the walrus"
maybe it's the boy you
piggyback from car to home
because his legs were born
too weak
his spirit stronger
than the best of us
or the five year old non-verbal child
who is continuously intrusive
towards you
in class motioning you lay down together
as he signals for a
blow job
modest appreciations
paper lies nearby; blue-lined, pad sized,
the kind used for a weekly grocery list
the kitchen table is scattered with newspaper,
monthly bills, receipts, a calculator with large
easy to read buttons
pots and pans are stacked neatly at one end
of the countertop, the rest of the dishes organized
by shape, are slotted into a plastic drip-tray
a deadbolt on the door rests untouched
cushions line either end of the sofa that borders
aging fringes of living room carpet
at the far end, a tv and VCR
rest side by side along a three foot
plank of pressed board on cinder blocks
creased newspapers fit snuggly into a
wire-framed stand to the left
curtains hang unmoving
against the vertical slice to an open window pane
modest appreciations for artwork and nick knacks
hang arbitrarily from faded walls
a short hallway leads to the bedroom; a bed made,
a closet full of old worn out clothes, dusty
shoeboxes stacked with years of collection
the air smells dark and has settled
like a lazy cat
it is supposed to be a simple job;
take what you came for, then get out.
but what they trip over is not a table leg
footstool, or shoe left out of place
and when they retreat in shock, empty handed,
to whisper through the night-
at last a phone call to authorities prevails
seven or eight months, the coroner reports,
while a community begins to mourn
that no one had missed him.
