Ryan Hardgrove, July 2013

Very Little Matters

She leaves early in the morning,
the sheets ruffled and flat next to me.
I hear the coffee mumble, miles away it seems.
She drinks it while applying her make-up,
I like her without the face paint,
but an honest day’s work as a woman includes vanity.

She re-enters the bedroom as a shadow,
separate and solid.
She leans down in the darkness,
and kisses my forehead,
and I push up, meeting her lips.
Her mouth polishes mine with mint flavored
spittle, cold and fresh.
She walks out and the door closes,
and the dog jumps in bed with me.
The morning sun pulls across the bed, her bed,
and her dresser, and pictures of her, and of
other people,
and I sleep.

I wake at noon, shuffle to her fridge,
3 eggs, a tomato, and a beer.
I sit in her living room,
and stare at her blank widescreen TV.
I swallow the beer and pick up my notebook.
I feel undeserving and uninspired,
how can this be my ticket?
I sit quietly, pulling at my beer,
the traffic moving past the house,
like the hands of a clock,
the house, her house,
stretching and sighing.
As my mind sifts for a comforting thought,
a justifiable reason for this, for her,
my pen begins to move.

She comes home with the headlights,
like candlelight on the walls.
She comes home to me,
kisses my chin.
We make love in her bed,
her dog in the corner.
She falls asleep in my arms,
her breathing rhythmic and beautiful,
her face calm, complete,
And whatever I was feeling, or whatever I was thinking,
no longer matters.



A 26 year old published poet and writer of short fiction from Pittsburgh, PA.  Hardgrove’s work has appeared, or is forthcoming, in Dead Snakes, Penny-Ante-Feud, The Spilling Ink Review, The Camel Saloon, Handful of Dust.

Promote. Poetry.
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