![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rejectomorphI keep wondering where the nostalgia is. Nostalgia was long an invariable side effect of my colds, but this time it has failed to make an appearance. I've tried to help it along, attempting to conjure up old streets and big glasses of orange juice in diners. Nothing. This virus knows nothing of the past. It has seen none of those old movies on television, nor the rain streaking the big window overlooking the eucalyptus trees in the valley. It's as though there'd never been days home from school, or nights when I stopped at drug stores to pick up one of those small packages of tissues one never sees anymore, or a package of cherry cough drops. I miss my cold-induced nostalgia. They just don't make colds like they used to.
Sunday Verse
by Jeffrey McDaniel
Glance at a woman on a train platform.
Suddenly we've been married for years.
I know all the delicate nuances
in her nine dialects of silence.
Can pick her from a thousand others
just with a sniff of her neck.
We sit next to each other, as we always have.
Our elbows touch, like the tips of matches.
Exactly the way I remember.
When she says excuse me, this is my stop,
there is nothing awkward about it.
Sunday Verse
Grace
by Jeffrey McDaniel
Glance at a woman on a train platform.
Suddenly we've been married for years.
I know all the delicate nuances
in her nine dialects of silence.
Can pick her from a thousand others
just with a sniff of her neck.
We sit next to each other, as we always have.
Our elbows touch, like the tips of matches.
Exactly the way I remember.
When she says excuse me, this is my stop,
there is nothing awkward about it.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-01-24 03:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-26 03:37 am (UTC)