deepundergroundpoetry.com

Keepsake

(A�day�is�a�vase)
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The�morning�alarm�obliterated�my�dream
So�much�so�that�I�had�no�recollection
of�the�details,�yet�I�could�sense
and�miss�the�feeling�it�left�me�with

Sometimes�the�early�light
(Pink�through�the�sheer�curtain)
reminds�me�of�a�resurrection
after�the�death�of�another�yesterday
And�sometimes�I�feel�that�significance
rising�in�my�chest
before�the�coffee
before�the�cigarettes
As�the�sun�bestows�bronze�armor
upon�my�shoulder;
I�am�renewed
to�ride�the�day
like�it's�a�bright�blue�horse

Though,�most�days�are�like�baubles
Minutes�turn�into�absent�minded�trinkets
to�pass�the�time
Like�the�playing�cards�during�solitaire
So�many�get�buried�in�the�pile
unaware�of�loss�or�wins

And�too�many�days�end�up
like�plastic�grocery�bags
wadded�up�and�thrown�into�a�bin
repurposed�as�a�memory
of�good�or�bad,�but�mostly�generic

Perhaps�today�will�be�valuable
More�than�just�zirconia
Though�I'd�be�appreciative,
I'd�rather�have�the�meaning
of�the�luster�from�what's�real
Like�an�epiphany,�after
a�day�of�dulled�thoughts

Although�who�knows,�at�wake-up
a�keepsake�may�be�forthcoming
in�some�spectacular�form
So�I�rise,�reluctant�over�a�lost�dream
yet�intrigued�by�the�opportunity
of�happenstance
via�any�type�of�treasure
to�make�this�day�unique.

I�venture�out�to�the�thrift�markets
making�my�way�through�the�meandering�searchers
Mildly�thrilled,�as�I�watch�their�eyes
as�they�blink�slow,�only�a�once
But�their�subtle�smile�acknowledges�their�reward
When�they�reach�for�a�gotta�have
instead�of�some�mundane�necessity

I�found�a�vase,�hand�made
perhaps�by�a�bored�housewife
Who�took�a�clay�class
in�between�the�hours
of�dropping�off�the�kids�at�school
and�making�dinner

The�kind�of�vase�that�some�husbands
end�up�putting�their�pocket�change�in
after�work,�and�they�think�they�are
pleasing�the�wife,�by�giving�it�usefulness

While�the�wife�stares,�imagining
abundant�flowers�crowding�over�the�rim
She�pretends,�guesses�how�many�colors
could�the�clay�vase�emit
Like�mother�nature�holding�a�handful�of�fireworks;
Her�creations�bursting�towards�the�sky

But�hubby�never�brought�flowers�home
ever�since�his�wife�gained�a�little�weight.

I�wanted�sunflowers�in�the�vase
for�my�kitchen�window
But�this�grey�sand�of�a�yard
only�grows�wrinkled�stems
Marigolds�then,�store�bought;
Bauble�flowers,�filling�a�void

Once�winter�moves�on,�I�will
try�my�hand�at�growing�roses
Yellow�ones,�so�as�not�to�blend�in
with�the�dark�red�vase

Upon�the�vase,�a�carved�flower
It's�a�tulip,�mimicking�a�wine�goblet
Perhaps�they�had�wine�as�they�crafted
their�clay�creations
Always�red�wine,�and�only�women
were�allowed�to�partake
As�this�was�their�escape�from�men

A�name,�"Vic",�etched�below�the�tulip
Was�it�the�name�of�her�husband
Or�was�it�hers;�Victoria
Or�short�for�victory
Or�victim
I�rubbed�my�thumb�over�the�letters
and�the�flower,�and�decided
it�was�named�for�the�city�in�Spain
Why�not�go�big
Far�away�things�have�made�their�way
to�thrift�stores�before�this

But�the�note,�wrapped�in�plastic
wedged�into�the�bottom�of�the�vase...
She�disclosed�it's�truth

Her�husband�had�used
the�vase�for�a�change�jar
and�that�she�found�it�months�later
in�the�trunk�of�his�car,�when
he�had�turned�the�coins�in
for�lunch�and�gas
and�a�pack�of�cigarettes

She�had�hoped;
It�deserved�better
Intentions�should�count
just�as�much�as�accomplishments

I�threw�out�the�marigolds
and�replaced�them�with�teacup�roses
Two�dozen,�crowding�the�vase
like�family�during�a�holiday

I�wish�that�I�could�bend�the�realm
of�reality,�let�her�know�somehow
that�her�vase�found�someone's�smile
That�we�adopt�strays
because�we�have�good�intentions

That�I�grow�roses�now
because�she�made�a�vase
that�deserves�remembering.

Decades�will�come
and�the�day�of�my�demise
I�will�motion�towards�the�vase
and�I�will�tell�my�saddened�son
to�take�care�of�it
It's�a�keepsake
To�put�only�roses�in�it

When�he�asks,�who�was�Vic
I�will�tell�him
just�a�long�ago�friend
that�I�never�met

I�will�tell�him
that�days�are�baubles
but�life�is�a�flower
And�vases�are�the�keepsake
where�roses�are�kept,�safe.

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