- Non-Erotic Poetry
- It is Friday
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He waits, seven-year old legs dangling
awkwardly on a dingy adult-sized stoop.
It is Friday, and
his eyes trace the crooked sidewalk
as it leads to his feet,
cracked where the weeds have broken it's will,
until his gaze reaches the empty street beyond,
and he will hear the phone ring
within the pale blue duplex
and he turns to familiar accusations
and watches her face through the open door,
the raised voices that precede the silence.
he knows the slander won't be far now and
all forty-seven inches of defeat
follow him soundlessly inside
as she frantically redials, cursing,
intent on the last word, and
I silently slip into my bedroom.
- COMMENTS
Anonymousover 19 years ago...should have a red H by it. A tenderly painted word-picture with a nice jolt at the end. Sweet and sad. A 5.
