Ikebana

James R. Whitley

 

Maybe this is exactly what I deserve

for enrolling in that damn workshop

at the neighborhood community center,

 

my comeuppance for getting buzzed on

the complimentary saki and then flirting with

the raven-haired minx seated next to me

 

when I should have been focused

on the class assignment:

how to position the limp stems and

 

erect bamboo stalks convincingly

to communicate remorse after

a long bout with self-indulgence.

 

Now here she is, cluttering my

once-comfortable home with conflict,

agitating the very air with argument.

 

And in the kitchen trash bag:

the discarded leftovers from yesterday's meal

called "peace-of-mind."

 

Battle-weary, we continue on

like two souls striving for penance,

paying for their costly sins in purgatory.

 

I rearrange a vase of neglected tulip -

their blond heads hanging low, the water

so cloudy it could be sour milk.


 

 

 

Copyright 2007 by the Tipton Poetry Journal.

All rights remain the exclusive property of the individual poet and may not be used without their permission.

 

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