He could have left her a note.
A simple "I don't think we are
working" would have sufficed.
The aloe vera in the clay pot
was wilting. He never watered it,
even when he knew it was thirsty.
Instead, she came home to an empty
box. Cardboard rooms inhabited
by ridiculous plaid curtains.
His pine musk evaporated in her
arms; they twitched and shuddered
like a drug addict's withdrawals.
On the radio, the weatherman
predicted a heavy rain storm.
"It's already hit" she whispered.
Her mind dripped questions
that shattered as pellets
into her heart.
Wiping the flood from her eyes,
she walked over to the solarium.
The creeping ivy and dwarf palms
thrived beneath the glass ceiling.
With plants, she always had a
green thumb.
But little luck with the human species,
particularly males. They required
something more than water and sunlight.
Published in Tipton Poetry Journal, Summer 2007
* Included in the chapbook, Petal Storm
You nailed it; with this, right down to our current weather ( here)..
ReplyDeleteI'm glad you liked the poem, Elaine. Thanks for stopping by!
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