So she stood
framed by the back door
with the scent of
fresh cut grass
and windfall lemons
rising in the
humid morning air,
waiting for the whistle
steaming on the range,
looking at the tangle
in the yard –
the dying peachtree
the Chevvy on the
cinder blocks
defying God to rust it
any faster.

Ol’ George is on
the radio “A good year
for the roses”
She hooks her thumb
in the waistband
of her jeans and
lets her fingers
fall lazy, close down to
the part of her
he won’t touch

And she loved him once
but she was just
a kid, hell he was
just a kid too.
Ad the whole adventure,
gettin’ married
planning babies
picking patterns,
getting presents
just seemed what
the whole world wanted
them to do…
… now it’s been so long.

Some times it feels
like the guilt
is built
inside her.

The rain comes down
and she turns inside
to a childless house
which is
so dark and closed.

This poem originally appeared on my MySpace blog, Full Mental Jacket, on 12/22/2006

This entry was published on 12/22/2006 at 2:31 am and is filed under Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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