Seated in the underground, my shoulder
pressed against my neighbor’s dampness
soggy wool. Her face is veiled, a glimpse
of sorrow in mascara streaks; wilted roses
in her hands. Suddenly we find ourselves
alone, her henna hands prepared in mine.
From across a bay, on starlit waves a boat
approaches, and without a word’s been said
I know that one of us will leave. Her eyes
reflect the stars above, and in my veins
is ice. I’m on my back, my nostrils fill with
formaldehyde. The three-piece suit I wear
is black, and she tells me softly that it’s
time to sleep. A ship’s a coffin, but inside
it’s soft with crepe de chine. She places
a blood-rose, dew-drop tears, my eyes
are closing, and I feel the gentle swaying
waves before I find my shoulder’s free
in my hand I have a rose, and once again
alone I’m seated in the underground.
Today dVerse Poetics Grace wants us to write about everyday life with an element of wonder or dotted with psychic bus stops that are sometimes unfathomable to ourselves with inspiration by Canadian poet David McFadden. The scene is actually based on a very real memory from back in high-school when a lady (coming from a funeral) started to talk to me about her sorrow, and when she left she gave me a rose.