Array ( [sid] => 179912 [catid] => 1 [aid] => mick [title] => Liquid Spiders [time] => 2014-12-01 10:32:28 [hometext] => If I can't be honest here, then where? [bodytext] =>




My robed wife- a Tuesday, 7 PM.
Standing at the table under the naked kitchen light;
gathered and rowed- one more thing to do,
empty ½ pints, pints, a fifth or two.
“Spiders”, she calls them,
vodka's frozen remnants thawed,
poured drop by drop until full shot
then down her thirsty maw.

I see her from my easy chair,
lost at times in stare- seeing the kitchen
that could have been,
my wife years before...well, then.
But the pot and the kettle are both black,
no saving spiders for me-
At least her sad table arrangement
lends to economy,
so who of us fine pair
are the better or worse alcoholic? [comments] => 9 [counter] => 302 [topic] => 39 [informant] => Invierno [notes] => To maintain the correct comment to poem ratio, please do not comment on your own work. Commenting on your own work does not ensure your reply will be seen. Your comment on this posting has been removed. You can send a private message if you wish to respond to someone. Thank you. Moderator_18 [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => Grief ) Your Poetry Dot Com - Liquid Spiders


Liquid Spiders
Date: Monday, 1st December 2014 @ 10:32:28 AM AEST
Topic: Sad Poetry

Contributed By: Invierno





My robed wife- a Tuesday, 7 PM.
Standing at the table under the naked kitchen light;
gathered and rowed- one more thing to do,
empty ½ pints, pints, a fifth or two.
“Spiders”, she calls them,
vodka's frozen remnants thawed,
poured drop by drop until full shot
then down her thirsty maw.

I see her from my easy chair,
lost at times in stare- seeing the kitchen
that could have been,
my wife years before...well, then.
But the pot and the kettle are both black,
no saving spiders for me-
At least her sad table arrangement
lends to economy,
so who of us fine pair
are the better or worse alcoholic?

This poem is Copyright © Invierno


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