I uncovered grief in your sawdust drawer.
It smelt like cinnamon burnt by oil.

You sit so straight in that rocking chair,
transmitting the tension of a violin bow
dragging down your stiffened clothes.

I cut all the holes in your dress socks
and your sleeping body’s silhouette out from your black velvet drapes.
My presence in your life,
by now,
should be all that you can take.

You got cellophane kisses buttoning up your sleeves,
and my tired hands have lost all memory of what they need.

I uncovered your statement,
short and to the point;
Like a wasp napping in a thimble
or my first grip on the blade of a saw-tooth knife.

written on 10/06/2009 by: Matt Kane