Val Morehouse Poems
|86.||Waiting For The Folks||6/3/2007|
Comments about Val Morehouse
Like a lover he enters my life,
carrying his dark purpose into the bedroom.
Each thing opens to him like a map.
Here, today's headlines screaming of home invasion
lie blanketed on that chair
where yesterday's clothing is crucified.
There, empty shoes gathering blackness.
Keeping silent on the nightstand, that traitor the
alarm clock winks its digital eye.
He fans out the credit cards like
flirtatious birds eager to fly on plastic wings.
Closeted, the jackets and dresses line up,
Emaciated prisoners praying for liberation.
He pats them ...
Crackle of sun stranded
in blue glass she waits in that
white house so old
her breath haunts the cold
as Bess conducts relatives
along all eighteen doors,
past woodburner parlor logs
and grass someone's kindly
kept in trim. But God Almighty