The cookie jar that held my savings
In sinuous cylinders, placed high up
On the shelves I have to reach
Only with the aid from a high-chair,
Is now kept on the table beside my cat
Who seems fascinated by my whimsical earrings,
Made from shards of my old window-
I am quite crafty-
Reflecting on the jar, is my
Waiting to be washed off of the grease,
Of the dirt from the dramatics of war
And the stains from the char
Of love, of love, of love.
I beseeched every ounce of my sordid veins
To match the color of my blush,
To be the ruddy irridesence of my front door,
Outside which sit roses addressed to me
Every Sunday morning,
And they would still be blue
Every Sunday morning I wake up to the chirps of newborn rays,
Bring in the roses,
Juice the oranges,
And whisk out a tune or two
That I imagine to be the the song of my rendezvous
I lapse onto the recliner
Like the 80-year-old that my soul is,
With a cigarette for lollipop,
An ashtray for a flower vase.
So here I sit and contemplate:
What is it that makes me any affable?
Is it the scarves I sew for myself?
Or is it the books that replace the clothes in my wardrobe?
Is it my aching feet from all the
Toddles along the street in my hat with
My purse and my cat?
In search of a artist
Of flowers and entwines
Who often grunts at my sight
For the roses I buy
Every Saturday night to decorate my doorstep?
Image credits to respective owners.