Litkicks Message Board Archive

Lemonade (*feel free to critique*)

Posted to Action Poetry




my heart
is set
in the center
of a silver tray,
set in the center
of a long mahogany table,
set in the center
of an elegant, chandeliered, wood-paneled ballroom
waltz in Vienna, December 1766.


My heart
is a fibrillating crystal
punchbowl overflowing,
with Austrian lemonade,
floating lemon rinds and small
soft cubes of melting ice,
endlessly spilling over on all
sides, staining the starch
of the cloth underneath
-once colored the taste of your pure winter breath-
to a mild brownish mold tone.

Every few moments
another tuxedoed usher
appears with dignity from behind
a swoosh of double doors in a stream of meticulous,
dignified tuxedoed ushers,
all bearing glass pitchers filled
with Austrian lemonade to replenish
the source of my heart.

The excess liquid perennially
dribbles dripping downwards
past sugared,
crusty floorboard puddles
already dried and sticky;
the lemonade flows
between the cracks of the ancient
hardwood ballroom floor of my soul.