In the pines, in the pines

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pining
pinning hopes for a successful day on      me
(oh dear lord)
wondering
if he was here and I was there
would the dishes get washed sooner
and the table used for meals
instead of laundry
would the oil change happen before 5,000 miles
and the bills get paid on the 1st
would women be on the porch
perfumed (unaware he had no sense of smell)
bearing his kind of cheesecake (thick and dry)
homemade angel food (a favorite)
and yellow cakes with his mother’s fudge frosting (his real favorite)
would he repaint the bedroom
an even lighter blue
and box up most of me
clothes books papers miscellany
keeping the boxes in sight
cleared away but still in sight

for sure, he’d be better at keeping up with the checkbook

or so he’d tell himself
floundering but a little smug there
chin-deep in the ocean of Sad
and working too much and thinking too much
and waking up

pining

waking up in the blue room/9-23-2013

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About Vicki Caroline Cheatwood

Writerly. Rebooting. Evolving. Searching for great chicken salad.
This entry was posted in Grief soup, Poetry, Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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