Thought The Flue Was Open

Lover, your jukebox repertoire
inserts platters of sound
into my open mind.
I have no way to close it.

Please sit in a chair
and eat sardines straight from the can
and give me respite
from your cat-scratch voice.

The clouds of song
obscure my free lunch
I know is somewhere
on the table in front of me.

You seem to be unappreciative
of my devotion to meals,
especially the alluring spheres
of Braeburn apples.

My, how this room is overcast
with all your trebles
by day and by night,
by land and by sea.

Lover, this obscuring
of our shared house-scape
is merely a smoke screen
to hide alluring tragedies.

Moments from taking shape
without real discussion
of a pleasingly
fatal mistake.


copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney

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