Alex Thomas Turissini | Aubade in Sepia
How the days swept by, looking up
at the ceiling fan’s painted
blades. Your laugh in the robin’s call
each morning, in water trickling
down my shower drain (irretrievable,
now, as a lost ring). To wait seemed gallant—
I thought I might be transported back
to some fondly mythic time, displayed
on a mantle. Thought I might
hear your motorcar in the gravel drive;
your footsteps, careful as the chauffeur’s
gloved hands. Just like that—
I snuck up on middle age. A brush against the fur
of a creature once fearsome, now tame.
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