China Blue

China blue and snowy saucers

On the old oak table where you once sat

Alone and plaintive, dusty

I haven’t had the heart to move them yet

There’s to much of your spirit

Still in the house

It seems wrong to clear it away

When you’re supposed to come back

And drink your tea.

I went through your desk, though

It was necessary.

You never were organized

And I found myself buried in mountains

Of old bills and notes and wishes

And by the time I found the will

Paper birds had roosted all about the room

Their inked markings unreadable

Thanks to the flapping of their wings.

Your sketchbook I left by our bedside

Your notebook and Hemingway

Rest under the alarm clock

That will never wake you again

Though it rings its mournful, piercing wail

At 6:00 every morning

It scared me, the day after the funeral

I hadn’t slept all night, screamed,

Clutched your pillow

And threw mine at the foot of the bed,

The Phantom shadows of dreams disappearing

In the light of a grey morning.