poet Erica Francis

Erica Francis

The Art Of An Argument.

Grey-scale walls
windows with Gothic iron rods.

Black lace curtains hung askew
like they were put up in a hurry
or torn down in a rage

You in your business suit.
Never looked so starkly sexy
in your black tie and white shirt.

In the kitchen, the only color
is the dead roses,
still in the vase.

But their vibrance is a bit washed out
by the colorful insults
and brilliant belittling.

Outside, the hotel is clamoring
with people from east, west
north, south
exhibiting their life work

but in this little room,
argument is the only art form
we can wrap our mouths around.

Poem Submitted: Monday, October 13, 2008

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