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Handful & Gristle


the Lady . . .

Handful & Gristle

I leave broken crumbs on the snow
to find my way back from the House of Love
with its flash of honey and taste of more.

But it does no good because birds become
love’s agents cleaning scene sublime
so I climb love’s stairs to see what’s there.

There’s flesh of course in nipple and breast
and time spanned with decades of breath
and hands held while walking.

Closets of kisses with laughter after
memories mounted in rows on the walls
showing small slices of all.

In the attic packed in acid and grime
unpleasant times and emotional crimes
boxed and mostly forgotten.

The most hidden treasures are out in plain sight,
the constant companion, the sitting in silence,
and most especial the hugs.

The rent costs your heart, the lease is quite long,
and the place needs constant repair,
but what a view.

And oh, the homemade stew.

– Smith, 3.27.2015


. . . and her Scamp

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