Onion SoupShe stamped her feet and poured a glass of wine over him.
She recalls it was red and could burn holes
through the checkered tablecloth casually thrown
like wild flowers into a crooked jug.
He smiled that infuriating smile of his and snapping a
finger ordered another carafe to be brought to their table.
He liked to wear denim jeans that hung low on his
slightly emaciated frame that elicited so much
sympathy and an ever ready supply of onion soup and bread.
He could charm and freeze all with just one expression
in his eyes. Rude, imperative he would click out orders,
yet they all hurried to do his will - content to bask
in the rays of sunshine that followed him around.
He had the storytellers mesmerising voice and a look
that stilled a room whenever he deigned to enter.
She loved him for his effortless intelligence that in truth
held a chip so deeply ingrained on his shoulder.
She turns back the paper today and wipes a sad tear,
the promise of his youth and beauty never reached fruition.
He burnt himself out on arrogance and indulgence.
Tonight she shall make onion soup and when she breaks
the bread - she will remember basking from the
crumbs of his affection.
Poetry by Elle
Read 467 times
Written on 2014-01-19 at 11:55
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