a life cycle of Saturdays
"When one burns one's bridges, what a very nice fire it makes." Dylan Thomas
and it should bother me
how i find comfort in these conversations,
burrowed in those silent stretches
thrumming your heart,
each battered beat
begging me to follow
foully, humming your farewells
since you were too busy to articulate
and i, the apathetic audience,
neglected to attend that Saturday.
perversely, strumming my calloused ink stained tips
along the length of lit paper star garland,
perplexing origami folds
and creases our wedding vows
and all that comes to mind is
i want to drizzle it in kerosene
to see those shooting stars
from auld lang syne,
when we laid in the dew dipped meadow
beyond your grandfather's barn
in that quixotic state of Saturday Matins,
where the fireflies veiled us in
under the meteor shower.
but those betraying fireflies!
now complacent as this winters lake,
a tormenting mirror pane
that blinds a white knight,
thwarting heroism for
the suffocating breathy voice
of Hyacinth's choking pleads
from your chloronic wake.
and i should be bothered
standing alone on the veranda
strumming the splintered banister
you promised to replace one Saturday
but Saturday elapsed.
no longer humming our dolorous hymn,
i composed a satirical threnody last Saturday,
and it received glowing reviews
and i thought of those shooting stars
betraying us with their dust
but those short-lived trails we lived
burned out and all that comes to mind is
i'm within a matchsticks striking distance.
©️ Meg. January 2, 2021.