ICE CUBES Poem, by Berthold Lippel, at My poetic side

I stare at the ice cubes in the bowl

they look cold and slippery.

my mind drifts

the Eskimos give their old folks a candy bar

and send them out on an ice cube to die.

I wish I could do that to her

she who froze my heart

and taught me to hate.

I see tiny bubbles of air in the cubes

polite words trapped in trivial conversations.

the ice cubes are melting

measuring time by their slow death.

I touch them with my finger

it burns--paradox--then it turns numb.

I wish she would kiss my finger

make it warm again

to the temperature of love.

I want her back

but it is too late.

there is only a puddle

and a memory.

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