Until Next Friday
How bored she is with him;
his bearded face, curious
eyes, he smokes cigars as
smoke curls, twisting to
meet her face – blowing air
from his mouth – filled with
smoke in her direction –
her shoulders fall – she leans
onto a marble table.
Ice melts; wood crackles –
snaps – rings of smoke
exits his opened mouth
– a mouth hollow like his stare.
His long fingers motion to her as he
rubs his side of a wooden bench; takes
another mouthful of
smoke playing with his own – tongue.
She feels the heat of fire –
inside – crackling orange flame
grows brighter – shadows of light
crawl up a wall where her eyes stare.
In her dream she viewed a perfect
man living in a perfect home among
a world perfectly designed – one
she thought of all her life –
now she sees two shadows on a wall
as she stares into her own darkness – hears his fingers
scratch wood – even a mild stare irritates
her heart – flames suffocates her soul.
It is Friday; she has no place to run –
brought where roads have no endings.
A common beast sits opposite her as
wild beasts – outside keep watch on his
insanity.
Two shadows on a wall
he knows she detests him,
his grubby clothes, unwanted
charm – he fooled her.
He stares at her crossed – legs,
her feet – her pouts – as a child
doing without . . . she is dreaming
of next Friday and shadows on a wall. . .
She sips her beer from a crystal
glass; he will never see her tears –
she lights her only cigarette,
as other men stare at her face – in golden
light.
She can smell the aroma of vanilla
and see a bearded man’s pipe. . . until next Friday.
