The skeleton hangs quietly rattling
behind the broom and dustpan,
I deny he hides there
and would rather watch your contempt
for the rigors of truth,
and how you balance yourself
between the scented air and satin divan,
poised, ready to pounce, like your old black cat,
upon the first wiggly word I speak.
You would rather carve conversation from thin air
and weather forecasts,
than talk about love.
It’s been a long time,
we have held each other close so many times,
but you slyly avert your glance, tell me it’s supposed to rain tomorrow.
As you look beyond me, I see your eyes are not warm,
you are speaking too loudly as if I am not here in this room,
but dangling in your closet perhaps;
I know now, the skeleton’s grimace is mine.