Fingers: Prose Poetry

The buffet was enjoyable. So I heard. Finger foods mostly. Ornate, orange-lined dishes for overly dressed guests. Cheap plastic utensils were organized on oval platters. But nothing was used. Fingers for everything. Crackers, breaded sticks of cheese. Crudites for all the finger-licking onlookers to enjoy. A trumpet played in the background. Musical harmonies mingled with the soft din of small talk. The artist’s fingers played the keys as if he was born with them. The ornamental table piece blocked my view. There you stood, running your fingers through hairs. Bored. Full of consternation for an evening wasted. Oh how if you only knew my thoughts. One moment, together at that buffet, if our fingers could touch but over a pig in a blanket. The love, I’m sure, would fill our hearts eternally. The trumpet played on. Lost in but one moment over a literal, cheesy buffet. You were gone.


2 comments on “Fingers: Prose Poetry

  1. Warren says:

    Nice imagery. Romantic, tragic, tasty. Nice alliteration, and subtle rhyming.

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