can sometimes do more than make the earth move.
by Roger Wayne
Two Tuesdays have
since our grim anniversary, and now
it is hump day
again, and you
still swear the glass
is half empty, and I keep
Like the monsoon,
I won't quit.
Tears move you
Still you stay, statuesque.
rock solid alibis.
I am still bursting
the scene in full cry,
gull-like, hovering on the wind,
little at sea, a little beach-bound,
indecisive as a
twice as volatile.
Bonding was never easy with
locking lips as chancy as a slow dance.
Back seat bump and
grind, a tourniquet,
embracing to discard with pleasure.
can still hear my awkward silences lingering,
nicotine stains of
washing over the fingers of my mind
as they strangle
into paroxysms of blinding rage.
I was never
I still do not see you in his arms,
do not hear you
than stone, do not
feel the lash of your fault
across the San Andreas contours
of my broken back, and I
not a whit
to think what storms
my calm may
Eberle moonlights as an Arts and Entertainment Critic when he is not
teaching English or pedalling his bicycle in support of finding a
cure for Multiple Sclerosis. He has published his poetry in The
and in AuthorsDen.com.
He is privileged to be in his thirtieth year of marriage to someone
who truly understands him and somehow still loves him in spite of
that. Thanks Breath
for looking beyond my words.