A bird hit the window

the night we spoke of spirits

in The Vault.

The Vault, a

family secret where

once my aunt,

whose husband

was down in his back,

scrambled

under hidden stairs

to barter wíflác

for her mortgage. The

cunning banker, who tied

and hung white rope,

later knotted his own neck.

Histories were stored

on an upper level

above the shabby couch

where oft I sat atune

to the pick of a Colonel’s  hot guitar.

Sometimes I also nested there

to read and mind-soak

planks of warm and mellow oak.

I did not know

you worked, as you worked

earlier tonight

with your hand upon

your brow, just beyond the

crumbling plaster cutting

lavender glass in residence.

When the bookcase pulled loose

from the playroom wall 

shredding sheetrock,

you were telling me of pigeons.

The unwilling cock 

when placed into a pairing cage

 attacks the coy hen's flowering.

You seemed to believe that man takes, regardless.

Your strange, fat green-eyed cat

Jumped upon the bed

Where we’d jointly supped wine. 

I was stilled and pondering

your mother’s feckless questioning,

Does she cook?

Can she keep a clean house?

My sentient heart falteringly adjusted

to the possibility

of your philandering,

to my mind's wavering,

in this disquieted hour of loves, revisited.

  ©Scupper, September 09