Slip of the Hand -- by Elliot Bougis

Sagging sarcophagal sluices
of sludged stained sauces
Sizzle succulently
so soon
in a steel saucepan of
Seeping sympathy.
A sleepy slender somewoman’s silver-circled finger
on a grease-misted hand
Sloshes a circus of solidifying
streams in searing chicken-seed.
She soon stops,
soon senses
someman’s sorrowful slightly sore
hand, sliding sadly down her sallow back,
some several inches or so south of
her sorrowfully swollen face.
A slap
some recent secret scene ago
slips its stifled memory between
the separated someones.
She spins
servantlike,
the supine seed sloshes
and sizzles on the side of the stern steel pan.
She silently serves someman a salty saucepan
to sate his simple
sorrowed
unsettled stomach.
He slices his serving, while they sustain the so unslicable
silence.
After a soon satisfied stream of stealthy burps,
he slips out to start the stoical stationary car.
He is soon at some slamming sort of work.
So in her sarcophagal study
of solitude and seams she sews
a hardening stream of stitched, stained string.
Skilled fingers slip and knit a worn special sexy shameless silk slip,
some several inches south of a salt streaming somewoman’s face.
Bent
somberly
in her sarcophagal study of their secret tensions.
She sees…
She weeps,
she can’t see…
She…
She sees she can’t sew them
together
while the sun still shines
on the secret shameful sexed slip
of his hand.

[Also a personal favorite, but still haunting.]