Sunday, November 7, 2010


I wind my way home
Along dark roads
Enjoying the scuffing of my feet on the pavement.
Enjoying the quiet in which I know everything sleeps
I own the world tonight.
What a waste it is for me
I am undeserving.

Barbed wire fences mute their sharpness in air
That soften even the fields they pen in
To melt perhaps into the familiar yards
Or the edge of everything
Only the darkness knows.
And I should be threatened by the vastness of that thought,
But the anonymity of enormity is somehow oddly comforting now.

I walk into the yard and the crunch of litter and leaves under my feet seems almost to loud.
The kitchen light is on and it paints hazy rectangles on the sleepy lawn.
I see you through the window sitting at the kitchen table in your robe
Your hair mussed from sleep.
Perhaps when I enter you will have a warm smile for me
That almost seems like a welcome.
Perhaps it will be your fist.
I never know these days.
But I do enter and sit down with you
A coffee cup in your hand,
Empty questions in mine
That I work over and over like a tattered piece of cloth
Never satisfied.
We sit in silence
Starring at our ghost shadows in the reflection of the table,
And we are the opposite of everything we ever thought we'd be.

"I'm not happy anymore."
"Then leave."

No comments: