Our Parents

Cognac; what it means to both our parents.
Mine, sitting stilly in a parlor. Both hands,
both glasses filled with amber liquor and two
large ice cubes, disconcertingly devoid of milky
veil of air bubbles (how do they do this?)

And yours, hands crosst in their burlap laps.
First knuckles—where the palms are concerned
—are nearly rubbed raw, the red flesh below
the first layer of dermis on the thin skin of the hands
is exposed to plain air; all of it laid blandly open.

Lovers

World weary as a state of first
existence when he harried by
newly white-washed walls comes
over, sees the walls, has brought
a small but lovely bouquet of flowers
all blue irises and florid pouf of a
white carnation set strangely
in the middle as a locus of us,

props up the flowers in impromptu
vase that's filled with water. Finds
himself silently unsatisfied. Diddles
a cigarette, plays with a tall glass
martini, drinks from it, maybe. Hums
a silent song from way back. Kisses
the cheek when first seeing after long
absence or when going into it.