His eyes welled with tears that refused to fall. Men don’t cry. Yet, there they were, tears.
Real, big, and wet splashy drops.
There was something about his light hair and emerging pain that reminded me of someone else. I wanted to wrap him in my arms and whisper, “It’s going to be ok,” knowing that the words would be a lie.
And it was wrong to lie, except when…
I paused to consider the times for which this rule was meant to be broken and was only able to summon instances that were superficial, meant to save face and limit discomfort, short-term fixes to things that required permanent solutions, like a cheap band-aid to hold together a gaping wound.
So, I told him the truth and watched his tears fall.
Invisible and binding
growing tighter as I shrink
Cut past flesh and bone
oppressive and unbearable
Constant reminders of my price
the three i’s
that we will
work no longer
much to the
distress of our
dear, darling husband
The man whistled
In the bathroom
Pleased with his work
Dead Eyes,the number cruncher,
Pleads for compliance
In a flat voice
Capable of compelling only those who are his equals into action.
He belongs with individuals of like minds, dull and metallic.
Dead Eyes is in the right field,
Surrounded by the wrong people,
As in people at all.
He is a robot trapped in a human body, deserving of the same amount of compassion as he is able to give.
Let us hope that the eyes are not the windows to the soul, for the sake of dear Dead Eyes, the number cruncher.
O, how I hate the taste of it.
Yet I find myself with a constant mouthful of the stuff.
It makes words difficult to form
especially the ones that rhyme with thorry and thwong.
A pick-up truck full of hay
driving through the middle of the city
seems as out of place
as the temperature controlled farm of cubicles
in which I am trapped
Sharing a hotel room with another couple
Can be a challenge
Especially if one person
Has gastrointestinal difficulties
And the other one snores
frayed wires under blankets
lay still in a silent threat
like a snake in the grass