by-Matthew F. Blowers III

Two emotionally Divorced People

Living in The Same House.

Love don't live here, anymore

except in shoeboxes of old photos

of what was long ago evicted

from the chambers of two hearts.

It still gleams in the eyes of a puzzled child

who comforts mamma's tears,

and exudes in the warm touch of a

tiny hand on a fathers shoulders bent.

Only the puppies uncompromisingly

leap with joy when they come home,

but they sit at the same table,

like two cold, stale cups of coffee,

stained by lips that have grown

even colder, full of acidic black.

There are acres of space in the bed

they share, uncrossed like the Artic,

each mornings frost extends beneath

the covers, and nights bring long sighs,

and dreams of freedom that lies just out of grasp.

The child is the glue that holds

these broken vessels together,

begrudgingly going through

the motions, on robotic schedules

that propel them away from

what truly needs to be addressed.

Their baby will grow up

in the absence of warmth

and carry the long burnt out torch

beyond these walls,

perhaps into his own marriage,

demonstrating aloofness ingrained.

All the sins of the father are

visited upon the children

and the cold shoulder of his mother,

eventually may mimic his wife.

Love don't live here anymore,

surrounded by many doors,

that lead out to something far better

than this pointless masouleum.

perhaps a mom with a new love,

painting what should be,

across the palette of her child's mind,

and some treasured visits,

from a much happier dad,

eager to share unburdened parenting.

Love don't live here anymore,

but why must the innocent always,

have to suffer as they

watch it it slowly die

Two emotionally Divorced People

Living in The Same House.

Love don't live here, anymore

except in shoeboxes of old photos

of what was long ago evicted

from the chambers of two hearts.

It still gleams in the eyes of a puzzled child

who comforts mamma's tears,

and exudes in the warm touch of a

tiny hand on a fathers shoulders bent.

Only the puppies uncompromisingly

leap with joy when they come home,

but they sit at the same table,

like two cold, stale cups of coffee,

stained by lips that have grown

even colder, full of acidic black.

There are acres of space in the bed

they share, uncrossed like the Artic,

each mornings frost extends beneath

the covers, and nights bring long sighs,

and dreams of freedom that lies just out of grasp.

The child is the glue that holds

these broken vessels together,

begrudgingly going through

the motions, on robotic schedules

that propel them away from

what truly needs to be addressed.

Their baby will grow up

in the absence of warmth

and carry the long burnt out torch

beyond these walls,

perhaps into his own marriage,

demonstrating aloofness ingrained.

All the sins of the father are

visited upon the children,

and the cold shoulder of his mother,

eventually may mimic his wife.

Love don't live here anymore,

surrounded by many doors,

that lead out to something far better

than this pointless masouleum.

perhaps a mom with a new love,

painting what should be,

across the palette of her child's mind,

and some treasured visits,

from a much happier dad,

eager to share unburdened parenting

Love don't live here anymore,

but why must the innocent always,

have to suffer as they

watch it it slowly die