Marsha with her
teapot watered the plant
of sleeping Captain Dogbane.
Roses in vases
lined the drawing room,
stem upon stem
green as grass
in the meadows.
Dipping low,
her red sleeves,
touched by the sun,
kissed his cheeks.

The Columbus of happiness
landed on the porches
of pleasure and the
sun of good fellowship
vanished in sweat and heat;
golden honey
on the dark floor.

Cup and kettle
stood black and aghast
on the mahogany table,
silhouettes of shame,
eschewing the room and
the amorous shaking
of roses.

Jack D. Harvey has been writing poetry since he was sixteen; he lives in a small town near Albany, N.Y. He was born and worked in upstate New York. He is retired from doing whatever he was doing before he retired.