The odd thing about this poem is it is from the perspective of a person outside the central relationship, though the relationship in question is sort of a amalgamation of two or so relationships that I went through, but taken more to their logical conclusion. Of course, there is a double meaning in this poem, where "morning" is both a lover of the second guy and is the concept of those quiet, calm days we use to recharge, but somehow grow tired of despite our best intentions.
"Quiet Days, When We Get There"
Morning comes around sometime late afternoon, She is newly blonde and her lips red and mauve, Shadowy. And all she can say is "You are a complete waste of time," even though It is been, what?, years. She holds her face dead-still, statuesque; You reply with such a a simple thing: (How is she supposed to take it?) "Ah, you quiet days. How goes it?" Holding her, how did it feel? Her head Light and joyous and she smile A facsimile. She was trying you were trying And we were all just trying To wait it out. It seems facetious to ask if it was real. It Seems pretty much Just a waste of time. Morning comes back, and it is right at Midnight, and she seems afoul In mood. You laugh, to get her to Crack a joke. She stands still, dead picturesque, And counts the seconds. Backwards from ten, you pull her strings And get more or less nothing. There, at that point, when you were Keeping silent, how did it feel? Voices Whispering like the eight-am fog, a careful presence. You called her "Quiet Days." I coughed twice in my hands. I was too additional, and so I left. Morning comes back the next day, Right at the light of dawn. She has been crying, possibly for hours. Her eyes are red. Her hair us tied up in a white Bow. You are tired, packing all night long. You look forward to a good noon trip. You hold her, and say goodbye. She kisses you. I guess it is alright. You smear a little of her eye shadow, Rub your finger tips. "Goodbye, quiet days. We will see you when we get there."
This poem was written in 2006 by W Doug Bolden.
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