The Western Flea-Market #Prose #Poetry

The disconnect in your voice speaks

to an agreed upon dysfunction you settled

for early on. The contract was signed years back

when hope still existed in your child heart.

I sidle up next to you cautiously, uncomfortably

as to not break the facade of your finely tuned

and measured responses. 

As we saddle up inbetween this agreement and your

unfound desire(s), that you won’t speak in fluent tongues

about love, a love once promised to your young heart.

Conspicuously, we nod to the silence and the icy facade

as you butter your toast and then smear jam, accidentally, 

on your most loved flea-market brocade.

Changing the subject to a better thought, and a better

series of events than this, I shift my attention to your

broken Television, for which I promised to fix.

Although, you ignore my questions and drift off

toward the sink, to wash the stain from your most prized gift,

a gift you bought at your weekly visit, to the local Western

thrift, the Western Flea, the outdoor market at the end of your street.

I fiddle about with the connections you’ve lost on your set 

and hope for the best for this little broken TV.

©Jay Mora-Shihadeh

Photo by Daria Shevtsova from Pexels

#Poetry #Prose #Freeverse

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