The Poetry Corner

Blackamoor

By Paul Cameron Brown

Breaking up - as in the cloisson jar you dropped. . . little regard, a few brittle pieces scattered about the floor. Let's call it "shedding feelings". Expensive? There's always another humidor tucked away in the cranny of another antique shop; after all, a woman is only a woman although a fine, Cuban import is a worthy smoke. "What this country needs is a good 5 cigar". Panatellas? He might have added tight-fitting, long lasting. Nooks & crannies. Little things, your ways. Fruit fly (perhaps damsel wing) as symbol of perishability. My emblematic coat of arms. No season of regrets, rather snatch of minutes, the oasis span of a single candle. Who knows? The sun nudging petals at the close of another day. Your eyelids casting shrouds (and shadows), the long funeral walk of your hair across the pillow. Then awakening. You gathering tresses much as a bird trilling feathers. Clandestine, these rendez-vous' Clementines. Air of mystery and melancholy street, the moon up & poking holes in my argument. Tedious fingers, no account matter of factness lasting eternities. Imagine, you & this moon, dowagers together crotchety, decades hence, making tea. Curls of black leaves, grumbling. Blackamoor and sadness, cult king of empty transforming the bright & ruddy complexion into barely honourable dishwater. You can ask what this means. A cough. Twirl of spoon in a cup, deafening answers. I prefer the lonely wine bottle, egret in flight & motion, retaining dignity across a crumpled, brown bag. Listless, linoleum floor.