Eventualities Poem by Romella Kitchens

I remember being with you.
I remember the other you as well.
The closed curtains of your darkened inebriation...
Nothing to breath but cigarette smoke.
Hours of sophomoric cable television.
You always controlled the remote.

I left one day to shop and never came back.
It was the day of my first sunlight.
It was the night of my first unhampered moon.

I remember the Beech wood trees near your door.
Their dry leaves clapped like hands that day.
Their dry leaves curved on the sidewalk under my feet..
Their dry leaves struck palm to palm.

I had a lunch of liver and onions at a restaurant up the street from you before I boarded the bus towards town.
The waitress asked: "Oh, where is your friend? You know.
He always comes here with you? He always orders for both of you? "
I had not a clue as to what to respond.
I felt freed somehow to ignore the inquiry.
She looked at me nervously then said:
"Oh, well. Lets order then."

Fried liver with onions.
The homemade mashed potatoes were splendid.