Bring Back the Dead 

The woman next door zooms into her driveway,
engines roaring, lip locks the man in dreadlocks
wearing a 'Bring Back The Dead' tee, in tight black.

I hear them at night when I let out the dog.
Music soft behind deeper delights
that trigger old memories.

The stars preen for them,
Palms bend in the darkness listening.
Our dog jams his nose to the fence,
ears erect, body en point.

You kissed me like that, brought me flowers
for no other reason than the sky didn't fall.
Your hand in mine, I thought romance 
would fast forward forever, that pumpkins 
would stay coaches well past midnight.

I've forgotten that come hither light in your eyes. 
In truth, the candle has burned to the nub in my own.

Trapped by aging and illness, we sit,
barely speaking, never touching, before
you go to your half of the house to think
of what you, too, hoped life might be.



Pris Campbell
(c)2012

In The Rusty Truck, summer 2012


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