A Seventeenth Century Poem

Susurrations cold as jelly
embalm me in the hallway.
Overcoats dodge into shadows.
My evening shift at the diner
has dulled me to the pasty glance
of men who love you more than I do.

Fried clams, fried chicken, pot roast–
too much dead meat. Climbing the stairs
I regard the dust rising
from the filthy carpet the way
Pasteur would regard bacteria
flourishing in a Petri dish.

How gray and black the secrets grow
with age. Halfway up the last flight
I greet John Donne descending
not in his shroud but his apron
as he scurries to the diner
to replace me for the night shift.

The living room looks grief-stricken–
maroon drapes and leather chair,
mahogany bookcase and formal
brocade sofa. I flop down
on the blue Chinese rug and sigh
to warn you I've arrived. You lurch

into view like a vampire
from an old movie. John has left
one of his Anniversaries pinned
to your floral nightgown. I'm glad
it isn't an Elegie. The rug
feels good. Staring at the ceiling

I recount the dinners I cooked,
the reek of hot grease stifling
my jealousies. Maybe tonight
as we deep-fry together
in our own fat we'll remember
that long ago we married for joy.


-William Doreski


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