All I found is an empty cup in the sink,
your cup, the last one you drank from
before bundling everything into your car –
clothes, books, pictures, everything really, at least
everything with a past.
I thought, I won’t have to wash her damn cup anymore.
The scenes of emotional carnage, what we allowed
ourselves to do, the way we waged a silent war
over pictures of you with other men, over my
secretary’s endless legs, your habits in the bathroom,
mine in the kitchen, all that’s missing from our scenes
are pictures of children with dogs, birthday cakes,
Is that what counts as solace?
“No children were harmed in the destruction of this marriage.”
I had expectations. Requirements, spoils, salvage,
something should feel like a burden laid down.
There is nothing. An empty cup in the sink.
And it is just that, victory is empty. The defeat of love
is the end of everything. Thoughts, feelings, words,
are spent. They were the bombs, love was the target
and now we are refugees.
Now we are Joseph searching for a manger.
Arefin Niam said:
Excellent! This is such a treat to read
Ronald E. Shields said:
Thank you. I am happy you enjoyed this poem.