Loft

You built our home in a red brick box,

Windows casting over the back of a bar.

If I were to redraw every inch of those white walls

I couldn't see past your barefoot by plaster pieces,

Crumbs from the hole, tantrum-punched above the bed. 

I exhale out the window and listen for

The dents from your heels clicking over the city,

Echoing down gun metal downtown streets.

Your tiptoe dance dodges traffic and puddles,

Racing to the calm of a claw foot tub.

Miles away from the din we drown in the charms 

of empty bottle ambitions. As you lace on point shoes

My fingers trace your scar lines and healed bones. 

From wine stained lips you murmur, inaudible

over drunkards and the radiator's nagging whir.

Reviews

[DavidRyanM]

Damn you. You have a clear control over words...more so than most. I admire that a lot. "Crumbs from the hole, tantrum-punched above the bed," is a brilliant line. You managed to encapsulate the grittiness of the downtown scene and way of life at the same time telling a story of a realistic relationship and in only three short paragraphs (which I know is not what they call Poetry breaks). Well done, dear.