March 20, 2013

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You made space for me

that postage stamp square

under the table and surrounded:

chairs, junk, dust bunnies,

the weight of your burdens.

I never stopped shoveling

through the detritus

that collection of your worst days ever.

A fruitless hope to find your hand reaching for mine at the other end

a glimpse maybe, in my direction

in passing

at your whim

the stuff of years:

anger, sadness, and confusion.

And me with my own burdens on my back,

yet glad for your dribs and drabs.

Happy, even,

for the impossibly tipped scale.

Then I saw my own face in the mirror,

and not yours,

leapt from that precarious height,

and away

from you.

Colleen Sohn

 p.s. Oh me, oh my, this is not about the dear hubster!