“I have to tell you”, “Noon Concert”, “I knew something was wrong”, “I allow myself”, and “It is not so much that I miss you” first appeared in the March 2010 issue of Poetry Magazine.

www.pfmentum.com/PFMCD021.html

Dorothea Grossman is featured in Edition: Refresh!

I allow myself
the luxury of breakfast
(I am no nun, for Christ’s sake).
Charmed as I am
by the sputter of bacon,
and the eye-opening properties
of eggs,
it’s the coffee
that’s really sacramental.
In the old days,
I spread fires and floods and pestilence
on my toast.
Nowadays, I’m more selective,
I only read my horoscope
by the quiet glow of the marmalade.

I knew something was wrong
the day I tried to pick up a
small piece of sunlight
and it slithered through my fingers,
not wanting to take shape.
Everything else stayed the same—
the chairs and the carpet
and all the corners
where the waiting continued.

It is not so much that I miss you
as the remembering
which I suppose is a form of missing
except more positive,
like the time of the blackout
when fear was my first response
followed by love of the dark.

These frail, white widows
who get their hair done weekly
in tight curls
like little flowers,
bend their heads
until the applause
says it’s time
to be brave again.

I weep for the lamp-lit houses
on Hollywood side streets after dark:
old, reliable trees,
a screen of fog around the moon.
Behind each faded
painted door
fresh drama grows
like weeds
over the neighborhood.

I’m wearing your wrist-watch
until mine is fixed
(not that I owe you
any explanations).
But I want you to know
that it cheers me
to pretend it’s still warm
from keeping you
on time.

This sunset is being brought to you
by smog,
which has basted the air
to a breathtaking orange
shot through
with robins-egg blue.

It doesn’t matter
whether you open the door,
turn on the music
or stand up.
All you really have to do
is feed the cat.

I have to tell you,
there are times when
the sun strikes me
like a gong,
and I remember everything,
even your ears.