July 1, 2024 — No verbs
A road trip. A dome of stress within the car,
and golden fields without.
A hotel room. Quiet, dark, cold against the heat,
floor to ceiling blackout curtains.
Riverbend Ponds. A lace of trails and lakes,
more than enough reflections of sunsets.
A return drive. Twice the stress, golden fields again,
all two days earlier than expected.
A husband (supposedly)
in a recliner (his)
in the living room (ours?)
in a house (mortgage: $3,106 a month).
“Concert tomorrow.”
Lazy. Flat affect. Quotidian.
Sunday. The next day.
Estimated time of return: mid-morning.
Monday. Silence.
Lots of friends down there.
Tuesday. Silence.
Worried…
Wednesday. Phone call.
New time of return: never.
A wife (on a technicality)
on the lawn (hers?)
out back (quietly)
in shock (tears: not just yet).
A house. Silent and aging, rotting deck boards,
and a dog with searching eyes.
A locked door. The key — a hex wrench, black, slender —
now a decoration of junk drawers.
A bedroom. An echoing expanse of empty walls,
and golden fields of bare carpet.
A woman. Quiet, dark, cold against the heat, hidden behind
floor to ceiling blackout curtains.