I always use that old chipped green coffee mug.
I never could tell you why.
Stupid secret from another time.
Antiques that follow me.
Our old ice cream haunt from the decades
died this summer.
You began your folding, too.
Still you soldier on,
wearing regret that you could not incite me
to a life.
We come home to the warm room.
Awkward furniture, arranged oddly.
Not encouraging real warmth.
There’s a plush chair, the odd man out, never sat in,
except by the cat.
Company be damned.
I undress for bed.
Pull the car keys and change from my pockets.
Bypassing the proper places,
I lay the keys on a soft stack of facecloths,
the change on a wooly sock, also out of place.
Quiet private wishes,
vicarious comfort for the bones.
Where is the green cup, I ask.
Lee Dunn has been writing since the age of 18, but found that work got in the way for the ensuing 48 years. In his home town of Toronto, Ontario, Canada, he reveled in his independence at an early age, and spent as much time as he could exploring the city’s Arts scene. He was introduced to poetry and prose by the works of two literary giants, namely J.R.R. Tolkien and J.W. Lennon and thence fell in love with the written word. His work includes poetry, short fiction, and personal essays, and ranges in theme from the surreal to the horrific, nostalgic, and themes on the human condition. He has been published on Spillwords.com, The Dark Poets Club, Journal of Undiscovered Poets, Crepe & Penn Literary magazine, and the Shelburne Free Press.