These Foolish Things

Such precious memories,
you left behind. How you gave
all of everything you were, and
in return, I gave the dregs
of everything I’d been.

How could I forget that washing-line
you tied between two trees; the sight
of your chemise dirty-dancing
with the wind; a fallen angel,
longing for release.

The chaise-longue in the window
faded by the sun – the one collapsed
that afternoon when we made love...
its myriad of cushions – did my head in,
and how you’d say, cushions
were a ‘woman’s thing’...

how no one played honky-tonk
quite the way you did, or sang,
quite as bad, or was such a whizz
at crosswords, but a regular
Mrs. Malaprop at heart.

The attic room; how it smelled
of musk, patchouli and you,
with its books, and CDs. Cacti
in little orange pots that cried out
for you to stop loving them so much;
to go easy on the watering. Aquatic
they were not, but they survived
all the same.

And those muslin drapes you turned
bright green, after their very first wash...
the ones you made yourself, you were so
proud of, and how they quivered,
like wings.