a piece of shortbread


& sarah



& lewis


small hometown grew up

where gasoline


wasn’t pumped on a sunday,

church folk attempted


to hymn


while a pastor man got annoyed

by a passing fly


choir sang to an untuned



fanned their faces with a

church newsletters


while sweat rolled down their



robes absorbed beads like

a paper towel


wiping up water off a

cast iron sink;


wood rolling pin laying out

butter and flour,


sugar waiting impatiently

for shortbread


smells roll out of a kitchen



breeze sneaks by to slap a

mother’s tired face


gareth & sarah’s homes separated

by a peeling fence,


pickets guard bent roses,


her mother presents her with

one shortbread cookie


they have a secret signal,


meet at a hole in the wood,

pickets quite




she breaks warmth in half,

shares with a friend;


high school finished, two

separate trains,


love letters fall like old

leaves onto frost,


neither marry,


years later in a city scape

where people move,


lives and shadows stand



much like bent, unwatered



gareth sits on a chain that drapes

cement, entrance


to a park,


feels the chain move, looks,

sarah besides


a man selling roses has a



she, unwraps from wax paper

a recent purchase,


breaks warmth in half,


see each other as through a

hole in the wood,


tender kiss, a breeze stirred,

crystal blue in a sky


in the midst of a city

his arm encircles




nothing longer to separate.


Copyright © 05/24/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®



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