Heart Ache

With very slow frost-free words,
he mimes to them
that his heart.
like day old sour dough toast
has become a plopped rock
settling slowly to the bottom.

They shake their heads
almost birdlike
and regard him in asphalt indifference.

His heart becomes the taste
of someone chewing aluminum foil.
He says nothing more.
He begins walking with a cane
while his heart becomes an autistic child.

It has served him well in love
and now,
on an afternoon in the park,
it kills him.

They buried it with him
as a minor tremor
begins in each of them.

Nautical Miles

He moves with the instinctual wisdom
of alley cat balance.
His doctrine follows
an iceberg principle.
His eyes see more;
his chapped lips say less.

Today,
he takes his trawler
deep into the ocean
a simple apostle
of the earth’s last frontier.

Pungent Rubbish

Our love-
a white garbage bag
fitted to the top
of the garbage can.
Inside –
dead roses
I bought as a surprise
for no special occasion;
the greasy pizza box
we splurged on because
the day was just too long;
the blood stained bandage
you used to cover my cut hand
when the knife slipped;
the tear stained tissues
because you just needed to cry
and
the burnt omelette
when your single kiss
ignited so much more.

On Sunday,
when I take the bag
to the curb,
you shake and replace it
with another one
to start all over again.

R. Gerry Fabian is a retired English instructor. He has been publishing poetry since 1972 in various poetry magazines. He is the editor of Raw Dog Press. He has published two poetry books, Parallels and Coming Out Of The Atlantic. His novels, Memphis Masquerade, Getting Lucky (The Story) and Seventh Sense are available from Amazon, Apple Books, Barnes and Noble. He is currently working on his fourth novel, Ghost Girl.

More of Gerry’s work can be found here on Ink Pantry & Twitter.