pair of aces

The shredded hem of my skirt
drips platitudes
across the worn linoleum
of the little house on
the mountain where we
used to make
love, condensing
it to a milliliter of truth
for every lonely Sunday morning,
sad as unused Peach Bowl tickets.

The front door frame
is stained with my shadow
and the cat’s green eyes
still shine when you
come home
after dinnertime,
our contrite claws
diving for diamonds
in your unmined heart.