The Rowers: A Saturday Poem

The Rowers

Above the table, a Renoir of flush-faced rowers
finished rowing, hangs. And he fishes a boiled
egg from its shell, as she grabs his wrist,
The knife quivering.

Rather than saying, What? Now, at breakfast?
Or, I just had a shower! he sets down the knife.
Takes her face in his hands, and kisses a similar
ruddy blush. Toast can be re-toasted.

Sweet Lord, you cannot hear the sounds from a
room down the hall, nor see. For your ears,
your eyes, are not here. You are there.
Only these two, are here.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2008