When The Painters Come Poem by Matt Mullins

When The Painters Come

Rating: 4.0


You once told me poetry
knocks on your door
at 6 a.m. and that flags
are killer when they fly
in the wind. You once told me
I needed to keep my shoes
on the porch and when
we were naked to look
look at that place where
my body entered yours.
You made yourself perfectly
clear through euphemisms
and I came know your period
as that week when
the painters come.

I don't mind that it is
left to me to remind you
of those nights before
you turned your back
on us and how I was there
as you rose up, still asleep
helping to guide your brushing
fingers over your arms as if
there could be no true
awakening until you
became certain that your own
skin truly was the Braille map
back from the land of your dreams.
I don't mind that my longing
for you was desperate and
misplaced and that your feelings
for me seemed to change
on a whim.

You've married. You have
kids now, maybe even
in their teens, a house in
the suburbs, I suppose.
No more cigarettes, beer
and weed, and I have no idea
if or when the poems come
to knock on anything
of yours. Last I saw of you
ten or so years ago
my band had just finished
the night's final set
at the most popular
bar in town. The crowd
had parted for me only
to reveal you standing
in the echo of our encore,
my lyrics, my guitar's
melody still ringing in
your ears. You seemed
surprised to see me
fully recovered and not
missing you at all.
You told me you loved
that last song.

Nothing has turned
out the way you or I'd
supposed
and the beauty of it all
is that this is fine
for both of us.

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Matt Mullins

Matt Mullins

Rye, New York
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