
The overripe pears lay untouched
sprawled across the white tablecloth
on the red oak kitchen table
A pitcher of cream, a bowl
an antique silver spoon are
on the linoleum counter waiting
for a chance to be helpful
which will never come
The deserted farmhouse is wary
worn wooden flooring speaks
of a rushed departure
bags dragged, many pairs of feet
rushing out the front door
Each imprint in the dust
tells a silenced story ~
each pear and its
pungent fragrence ~
the spoiled and clotted cream ~
are mysterious scars left behind
of unknown fear, tragedy or circumstance
left for me to fill in the frame and image
of what took place months and months ago

















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http://life-ordinaire.blogspot.in/2012/04/my-little-friend-james.html
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