Rightfully Refunded
Tori
She doesn’t expect
to be repaid,
for the things she does.
They didn’t offer her
a silver platter,
or even a silver nickel.
The love she administers
isn’t contingent on
exchanges like that.
Pay and Respect
are two separate notions.
She grew accustomed to
the latter, it was all they
could give in terms
of reciprocation.
Respect.
And Smiles.
The kind that caused tiny
creases to break from the sides
of their glistening eyes.
She looked into those gems,
and before they could say
just how proud they were,
She knew.
So when he left,
when he picked up his bag,
and glanced for a moment,
so quick, an Olympic calibrated
clock couldn’t have caught it,
She was
Stunned.
A doe paralyzed by the blinding
glare of betrayal,
of lies,
of the realization that
nothing in this world can be
properly returned,
rightfully refunded.
____________________________________________________________
About the poem: Tori blogs at Little Miss Muffins, posting what can only be described as some of the best contemporary poetry around. I go and read her blog as often as I can, and you should, too. Quoting from her about me section:
I bake banana bread, clean my room in red high heels, and write little thoughts and things on index cards. I live in a small town, which I love leaving. I dream big and fast and have high expectations for myself and everyone else. I'm a grammar fanatic. I like to read and listen to music, especially jazz. Lunch has always been my favorite meal of the day, although I can't skip breakfast. Coffee plays too big a role in my daily life, and while I have recognized that caffeine is a drug, I do not care.
That itself is a kind of poetry. I mentioned to Tori that I liked her poems and would like to post one as Friday's Sunday's Poem, and as far as I can tell, this is the one she wanted me to post, although it's hard to tell for sure because we communicate by leaving comments on her blog. So it's a guess. But it's also a good poem.
What I like about Tori's poetry is the way it has a sort of rhythm of its own; the lines don't go in a sing-songy way but they still have a meter that's hard to grasp, and yet is there. That's really what separates poetry from prose, I think: poetry uses language for the sheer love of language, and the communication of that love of language is every bit as important as the communication of the message of the poem, whereas with prose, the love of language is clearly secondary to the message being conveyed.
Tori gets that. Go read her blog and comment on her poems.
About the Actress: Tracey Gold was on Growing Pains, and was pretty then. She's still pretty now. And she was in last week's Entertainment Weekly, which I only just read because Sweetie hides it from me by putting it in the basket where I told her we should put magazines. I never think to look where something's supposed to be.
