Tuesday, October 30, 2012

Six thirty

She walked the deck of the ship
five years ago planning the act
of robbing me of all I was worth.

I dream of her hands around my neck
while I lay in the damp sand and the chilled
sea numbing the tips of my toes.

It’s the brunettes that look best undressed
and she’s slowly slipping into coveralls
now tightly gripping a sledgehammer.

On the coffee table is the New York Times
which I read every Sunday with breakfast
and a tall glass of orange juice.

On an all white porcelain plate is my heart
stolen out my chest and it’s still beating
taking a beating as she swings life away.

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