Tryst
Asking the blessings
of office objects:
Stapler, keyboard,
fax machine,
I offer him
a bleak smile.
Later, balancing, moving
in and out,
we agree, he smiles back.
Peacefully I warn him:
Slow, smooth.
He utters bits of limerick.
"The sky may be gray,
it may be gone."
When he shudders,
the world looks green again,
as it might to a child
I inhale his rain.
As usual, the sheet
darkens between us.
He rises
regaining his apologetic limp,
re-charging his cell phone
for the still air
and the long dead afternoon.
Meg Pokrass lives in San Francisco. Her poetry and stories
have appeared in The Emry's Foundation Journal, Two Twenty Four
Poetry Quarterly, Black Buzzard Review, Flutter, The Orange
Room, Halfway Down the Stairs, and 971 Menu, and Toasted Cheese.
She has performed with theatre companies throughout the United
States, and considers writing a natural extension of Sensory
work developed as an actor.
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