Untitled

Sort of a monologue-ish poem.

It was a Saturday morning

And I was on my knees in the kitchen

Wiping sticky grape juice from the floor

TV blaring in the background.

You know. Mother-of-three and all.

 

And then the doorbell rang

And I went to the door

Expecting to find the postman

Or some neighbor

Like always.

 

Instead I found

Sitting on the porch step

A bundle of roses.

Roses.

And I knew it was you.

 

D****t.

 

They were soft and pink and red

Nestled between exquisite dark leaves

Like a thorny forest.

Wrapped in foil.

Beautiful.

 

I didn’t want to pick them up.

It’s over and we both knew it..

So cliché.

 

Please.

 

But

They did make me smile.

That’s all I’ll give you.

Really.

 

I won’t ask how you found me

I probably would have done the same

But you know those days are gone

Those days in the movie theater

Those days in the car

But I never really forgot you.

Not that it means anything, really.

 

So I stood there for a while.

 

Then I picked those stupid flowers up.

And I took them inside

And told my kids they were from a stranger

 

Because how could they know?

How could they know about their mother’s marvelous gone-by loves and lives

Years before?

 

And what can I say?

They really were gorgeous roses.

God, I hate when you do that.

 

I’ll just tell Jerry I bought them at the supermarket later.  

 

Author's Note

I'm not too familiar with freeverse rhyming, and it's difficult sometimes for me to make the distinction between freeverse with a "flow" or just choppy, poorly done freeverse. Hence, I can't really tell which type my poem is. It would be nice if someone helped me out on this. I also like the poem, but perhaps to others it might seem a little cliche? Thoughts would be appreciated.

Reviews

[Tai Chi Italy Take Two]

This is free verse, which is fine in these days of anything goes in poetry...I wouldn't say it is rhyming, but it is interesting and obviously from the heart. It's subject matter is something that many readers will be able to identify with, thats the point of poetry so I would say the it works. Keep on writing Annie.

Smiling at you

Tai