The armour lies in a heap
just inside the door
like sweaty hockey equipment
at the end of the season.
There across the shoulder
the memory of a mighty blow
by some now dead foe
the once gleaming battle-sword
now hacked and dull
its grip muddied with old blood
like a torn magazine
in a doctor’s waiting room.
Soon he will come down for a meal
and she will slowly open
and read to him from
the book of gardens and honey wine.
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Your abrupt departure
has legislated that I remain
here on this narrow plot.
My hand that used, trembling,
to slide between your warm thighs
pulls cold weeds from
dusty rows of fledgling carrots
that we planted.
Rain would help
me understand
what took you
and why
Tears are too dry
for gardens you should know.
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For a while, yesterday,
the only explanation was
the cat had stolen the keys.
We were headed out
for a grocery shopping
session, to stock up
on various items
necessary to life and limb.
But we couldn’t leave
because the sacred
car key was mysteriously
gone.
We retraced my steps:
the night before
I had entered
after the movie
and had done
so and so
and had certainly
placed the keys
in the usual spot
but there they were:
gone.
We looked for
twenty minutes
and finally departed
using the spare keys
mystified, blaming
the cat or
a cat burglar.
It was not until
we were on our way
back to the car with
our purchases
that I reached into my pocket
and found both
sets of keys.
Flora, of course,
laughed all day.
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