9/17/16

SmokeStacks

We heard a doorknob turning (I could swear)
as my hand slid under her shirt
There were days when she’d rock on the swings,
and stare blankly at the failed protests of her tears
for hours and hours and hours
I’d sit in the grass, and kiss her bare feet
with half a smile on,
because I was well aware
that the sky was still blue beyond those punctual clouds
I was only ever worrisome of the stains
gathering on the butt of my jeans

We heard an ambulance (of this I’m certain)
every time there was a goodnight kiss
Our silent lips in motion,
and the stationary siren screaming;
it never seemed to end
Those were days of conviction
My belief had no faith,
and the warring of promises was over
There was a knock on the wall, and the turning of heads
We’d dance until the kitchen was clean,
and fall with feeling

These days I sleep in a warm bed, and am very well fed,
but I’ve no love; therefore I’ve no home
I want for all the world to know the peace she gave me
when sliding her tired body around my arm
in that corner booth, where there was nowhere else to be
I remember not ever wanting to go to sleep again
(still so afraid she’d run)
And I remember the fear I found in waking,
and finding her still there
She welcomed the making of many memories in her idealistic mind,
and the shaking of all reveries with the help of my used heart

And then
(for no real reason at all)
the door swung itself open
We looked around, then at each other...
...and I was nowhere to be found.

Poetry from Fancy Gravity by Shane Windham
E-book and paperback now on Amazon.com

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