Thursday, July 10, 2014

The Dinner Game

It's my turn at dinner
with the dead and famous;
it's a game I play to lose.
I don't need to know why Poe wrote rhyme
or what hand soap Pilate used.
The answers to my questions
were knotted in a noose,

and I'll never know
why you let go.

Why didn't you call me?

5 comments:

Susan said...

Whew, this burst into my reservoir of tears. Of all the conversations not to finish the worst was the phone call never made. Thank you for putting it so succinctly.

Anne V (Anne The Obscure) said...

That was deep. So deep it stung in all the right soul strings,

And moment before that I must confess that your blog name brought a loud guffaw to my throat.

Anne V (Anne The Obscure) said...

*moments before that

Fireblossom said...

I hope this is made up and that you didn't lose anyone. As poetry, the hand soap line is perfect.

grapeling said...

I've always wondered that, too ~