Unfinished Poems

They were here.
Here is where the hats were hung, and scarves were draped over smooth oak arms. And here was the carved, wooden cane propped up against a Sunday- yellow umbrella. Here was the sound of a wailing teapot. Here was the smell of cinnamon toast that wrapped you up and invited you in.
Here is where the books were read, and bifocals lay sprawled upon the marked pages of worn epics. And here were the sitting chairs, the ones next to the firelight that danced on the worn edges of the floor’s tapestry. And here is where the clock chimed its steady song of time, while the cat looked upward and kept track with corresponding flicks of his tail.
Here is where the records were played, the steady arm tracing its needle through each musical groove of a Waltz in C Major. And here was the red-bellied kettle. And here is where the two mugs stood side by side, chipped and cracked, silver spoons resting at their necks. And here is where the mason jar of honey sat, where crystal gold syrup clung and dripped down the glass’ edge onto wedges of lemon.
Here is where the pictures were placed. Here is where each photo surrounded the long dining room table. Here is where their history stood in faded grays and watched all the guests with smiling eyes. Here was her desk by the window, littered with parchment paper and handwritten letters.

And here was an un-capped pen
mid thought,
mid sentence,
mid word….

Now she is there.
There is where the hats are hung and scarves are thrown onto small shiny hooks. There is the waiting room with the waiting wheelchairs and the automatic doors. There is the sound of angry sirens. There is the pungent smell of antiseptic. There is where magazines lie untouched. There is the florescent light glaring down on plastic plants. There is the buzzing electric clock that barrels through time. There are the swinging double doors. There are the generic poster paintings on cold, beige walls. There is the speaker system always humming in hurried codes. There is the window into a room. There are the metal bed rails. There is where the IV looms unfeeling overhead. There is where the saline drips through plastic tubes into the waiting arm of the one she knows. There are the machines screaming in sporadic, angry beats.
There is the rush of strangers. There is the rush of shocks. There are her aged, shaking hands reaching out urgently for his…

There is the silence.
There is the wailing of an electric red line.
There is the line that has left her alone.

Mid breath,
mid life,
mid love.