Bed 'n' Breakfast
Laura Ashley sheets, irises and lilies
with a field of green so pale it seems white,
percale cloth soiled with raisin toast,
strawberry jam and safflower spread.
A pile of plates smudged with dried yolk,
bacon grease and concord grape seeds
shoved to one side, one quick leg roll
from the floor and broken crockery.
Outside, winter reaks premature havoc,
nineteen inches of snow in twenty four hours
and wind chill levels so low the gale cuts
through wolverine fur as high beams through fog.
Inside, lights flicker as power is lost.
The room's jane and her john don't notice,
interested only in their pleasure and confident
they generate sufficient light and warmth.
Outside, a gust rips the top from an old elm;
games forgot, lust lost, as snow drifts down
like croutons bleached by autumn's final sun.
Writer's Hood, the best poetry on the web, at http://www.writershood.com/
Poets for Peace.... ˇPoemas sí, balas no!
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