So he sits, a patient man in a darkened room,
counting shadows on a wall, awaiting love.
Never on time, or late for cold veal at five.
Candles, inches of their former height,
cast dim silhouettes on an empty chair.
Never on time or late—delayed?
The room is a lonely room.
A radio, the mantle's charge, streams melodies
of lasting commitment by a Group he does not know
—nor cares to, but the music pleases her so.
Hearth fire sputters and sparks, log nearly spent
—candles too, and the rose at table's center
seems short of vitality.
The meal has long been cold— reheated,
cold again, as a clock on the wall mocks him.
But he is a patient man.
Scents of lavender and ginseng have faded,
and petals, rose red, rest now on tepid waters,
having lost support of aromatic suds.
Wax clings to tiled floors and marble surfaces
where once stood candles, illuminating
—A soft glow of romantic contentment.
Flowers, strategically placed in a vast array
—colors, scents, and vibrant appeal,
withered at eleven.
So he sits, a patient man in a darkened room
counting shadows on a wall, awaiting love
and the familiar creak of a door.
"Honey, I'm home" she says, eyes buried in a closet.
"Think I'll just turn in," and vanishes upstairs.
He snuffs what remains of candles
and drains the water from her bath.
Keith E. Sparks Jr.
Copyright © 2004, 2019
Written in 2004, Later appeared in "Facets" 2019
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