A Prose Poem

A PROSE POEM                  7608XX

By JCSTREET © 2004

I used to come home to a drifting
haze of late
afternoon

She was a shadow-child
moving in the dim

I remember ...  funny how one remembers odd things
...  I remember the needle skipping each
time the turntable
jarred at her passing footfall, and
scattered sounds
of teacups

Wet leaves lit in a late sun
scrabbling at the windows the
lawnmower’s outlines becoming vague and unfaithful
through the wineglass at dinner

When she took the wig off it
reminded me of Cinderella
the glass slipper;  funny really
.   .   .   I don’t know why

--30--           Victoria, British Columbia, 1976