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Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash. Leonard Cohen

Sunday, August 21, 2011

The Last Time

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She wears long sleeves in August; laughs
about her fat arms. Sunglasses
hide her blue eyes. Please don't call the house
after six; her daughter may be sleeping.
She's taken to buying dark make-up and
waterproof mascara.

He swears he's going to change
This was the last time

The questions come more often
The looks, the whispers too
How many times can she say she
bumped into a door?
tripped on the stairs?
Besides it's not all his fault; she
has a temper too and
they both drink too much.

He swears he's going to change
This was the last time

She thinks about leaving him when
her daughter starts to cower
But where would she go? Who would she tell?
So they drink too much and yell and it was
the last time; in a beautiful dress meant for a party
a little girl helps bury her mother.

He swears he's going to change
This was the last time