Cadence of Two, Cold Hearts Beating Seperately

Long ago promissory notes

sealed with pinpricks of blood

now corroding, soiled documents

with a fixed annuity yielding

an aggregate of daily pain

the cycle begins again

the door knob slowly turns

grandfather strikes its seventh chord

you pass without even a glance

sharing nothing of your day

caring nothing about my day

walking past the stove's warming eye

the solitary place setting on the table

throw your lunch pail on the counter

Eight-O' Clock shadows course

through the drawn curtains

two still photos slowly develop

me sitting in my easy chair

you slouched down on the sofa

on the opposite side of the room

no salutary greeting to begin the vigil

not even a froward stare to coronate

the beginning of our tireless charade

striding to the TV console

you turn the knob, shatter the stillness

the streaming color effaces our stolid faces

the stirring words skirt our silent lips

the CNN anchors pawn their headlines

followed by pictures of war-torn cities

and crime-ridden neighborhoods

no gasps or retorts from our mouths

we stoically glean the tidings

a mere therapeutic diversion from reality

the divide separating the room and our lives

two blipping shadows flicker off the curtains

until grandfather mercifully strikes the twelfth note

upon which you slowly amble from your perch

pass the pot luck still stewing on the stove

and head alone to the bedroom to undress for bed

a few minutes later I head to the bedroom

change into my thread-bare gown,

a wedding present squaring the twenty years,

and without a benedictory address or superficial caress

slide under the covers turning towards the opposite wall

two dead corpses lie side by side on a cold bed

slipping into the deep darkness of their empty void