Is a furnished mausoleum.
You�ve worked tirelessly,
Folding dreams into severe, white stacks,
Like coroner�s smocks,
Storing them in clinical hall closets for future reference.
Your passion has been carefully
A nasty thing, passion; constantly bleeding color onto
Tightly-wound, grey berber,
Leaving puddles on glassy maple floors.
I suspect you keep your love tucked away in a cupboard,
Next to a bottle of affection, and a box of tenderness,
Where it ferments
On smooth shelf-liner.
I tip-toe through your home,
Taking great care not to leave evidence
Of my passing.
I walk past drawers
And these small tombs
Offer up the cold,
Scent of fear.
My head spins,
Stomach turns in small, frantic circles.
I mourn the death of everything that makes you human,
The pristine decay of your spirit.
I leave a spray of condolences on your doormat
with a card that says,
Copyright �1999 by Brian Tacang. All rights reserved.
Published in Poetry the Write Way: Webstatic � First Journey (Sept. 2000)
First Place, Webstatic Poetry Contest, Second Half 1999
Brian�s biography page