Poem: Us on a bench

Imagine me, melting on this
bench. A book drooping its
pages onto my hand.

My fingers tell me that your
blue denim creased my face.
I open half of one eye.

You like me sleeping you say.
Ease the eyelid with a finger-
tip. I am stubborn. I won’t.

I like a little light in my eyes.
Imagine us, getting thirsty,
drinking the afternoon sun.

4 Comments

Filed under Photographs, Poetry and Fiction

4 Responses to Poem: Us on a bench

  1. Lovely. Drinking in the afternoon sun is nothing short of elysian, me thinks.

  2. now if Norah Jones were to lend voice to that, won’t it be simply fantastic?

  3. My husband tells me he likes me sleeping too.

  4. Crazyfinger

    “A book drooping its pages onto my hand,” at once reminded me of “Southampton Dock” and another image – of a frozen image just as she was getting in (or out of?) to a car – from “Perfect Spy.” No reason to ask why, I suppose. Triggers and rearranges recollections.

    That, “I am stubborn. I won’t.” Is it being stubborn to open the other eye, or being stubborn to close this one too…? :-) Very nice.

    I absolutely loved that: “My fingers tell me that your blue denim creased my face.” If one stares at this phrase long enough, one wholly and fully grasps the magic of being alive on a sunny blazing afternoon.

    Regards, Crazyfinger