at the broken table tops
amongst the perfection of the nineties,
the seventies not even twenty years gone.

Blankets keep you warm
but this jacket keeps the cold inside –
it touches your skin –
and makes it all so boring, lackluster and brown.

And I’ve had one too many
as she sips her evian bottle
once more, waving goodbye to me –
perfection walking out the door.

And these are like the sensual overlays
of someone not so perfect –
as she sits and subtly, timidly smiles and stares.

So just stare at the beauty you’ve been longing for.

And lose yourself in those layers of blankets and remember
that it was the first she ever got and received –
that personalized meaningful touch.

And don’t negate the feelings aroused in us all,
as we long for the past and that familiar ride
that’s nothing more than an unknown common, an unknown shame.

But at least we knew the names as I stare with
my eyes wide shut into a darkness I can feel but cannot see.

As the light blinds and soaks through these
broken shutters of my mind.

(c) March, 1997, Steven H. Lee