Claibie's House

True friends are always naked to each other. ~ R. S.

Honesty sleeps wherever it wants to
in her house. Lounges in the foyer,
and back rooms. Pads about with no makeup,
hair undone, always beautiful and indiscreet.

Mardi Gras masks adorn walls
with sequined finery, fluff and feathers.
Proud, empty decorations are the only things
allowed to masquerade.

We sit in her huge kitchen --
naked over large glasses of her
latest discovery: Raspberry-chocolate
                         Creme iced Coffee.

We absorb poetry hidden in the Peace Lilies
The sun dangles strings of light
through bay windows. Huge squares
of black and white tile sprawl lazily under our feet,
cozy with their cold, ceramic differences.

Her voice is a scale of comfortable sounds,
and I blur meaning to enjoy the symphony.
As she speaks, I softly place
my dark hand against her pale one.

She has small freckles on her knuckles,
tiny brown spots of color that never quite
managed to merge.