Sunday Shopping Poem By George A. Scarbrough
Not for me today the vox angelica
Nor the vox humana. The telephone is dead.
Through the door I can see his coat
Lying as he left it on the other bed.
Ordinary cloth shabby with wear,
Out at the elbow, long out of style,
From the way it gathers itself, plainly
It has been his for quite awhile.
Just when it was he held the heathered tweed
Up to himself for simple suit and size
And turned to me for my assessment,
A lurking smile in his hazel eyes,
I cannot tell: but it was long ago.
We went home from the store together,
Dazzling and dawdling our way through
High bluffs of blue September weather.
Sunday became our day—great, soft music,
Bantering talk and laughter—the more
Made so because we said love lasted.
He never left his coat with me before.
Not for me today the vox angelica,
Nor the vox humana. On the other bed
The frayed coat lies. Spring hawks fret
Above the Sabbath mountain. The telephone is