Blackamoor

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.