Terry

Lemons on the tree
that cause no one to pucker
sit rotting in the rain
on stormy Sunday.

Well worn flip flops
still carry your tired feet
as you move slowly through
your no one to speak to world.

Vague, infrequent memories
of making love; you would
rather just be touched
in all the aching places,

much kinder... and safer
than the risk of another
breaking heart, long worn
like a thick terry robe

but without the comfort or warmth
or the ability to soak up
the wetness
of your lonely tears.