chocolate is a verb

colors, flavors, whims and other growing things

Tag Archives: dictionary

found poem: I see

found poem: the anatomy


dictionaryThey lived together in companionable affection. It was never love, though certainly she wanted it to be. He went off to paint houses, she went to graduate school. He came home and drank beer, she came home and baked bread. They were often stoned.

When his buddies showed up at dinner time, she kept cooking until there was enough — for five, or eight, or ten. There was always fresh bread, and its perfume.

Her floor loom was the largest piece of furniture in the living room. The windows, facing onto the side yard, had no shades, but shelves of houseplants suspended in front of them curtained the glass with their cascade of green.

There were two dogs, then one, and the turtles, and the row of five-gallon aquariums in the midnight-blue bedroom with the enormous, sloshing waterbed.

He drove a hearse, a mini, a Divco truck, a Nash Metropolitan, a Vespa with a sidecar. She drove a VW bug. He smoked cigarettes. She read books.

When she pulled the dictionary off the shelf to look up a word one day, three hundred dollars fluttered from its pages onto the floor. He had finally found a use for a book.

He was willing to be content. She was looking for something. They broke up.

%d bloggers like this: