Poem 118, day 130: The Trick

The Trick

 

She smiled to an empty room.

The scent of polish clung to photographs,

Gaps of shelf, the television stand.

 

She never did lift the candles and

As for the books, there were far too many.

How long would it take to dust each one?

 

Hours, perhaps, and anyway,

Who can know if it’s hidden, if the

Space beneath the lampshade

 

Remains untouched. Others will

Smell the polish, see the smile

And believe that the blush of cheekbone

 

Was never faked. All the while

The stubbornness of fingertips

Refusing to do more than they wish.

 

~ S L. James

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