(And
friendship it hath burned away,
Like
to a very ember cooling,
A
make-believe on April day
That
sent the simple heart a-fooling;
Mere
jesting in an earnest way,
Deceiving
on and still deceiving;
And
hope is but a fancy-play,
And
Joy the art of true believing
-John
Clare, from his poem Decay)
driving
through the desert
(well
she was driving
i
was drunk)
middle
of nowhere
we
pass
a
modular home
placed
probably
sometime long ago
abandoned
decaying
it
definitely had surround sound
if
loneliness is a sound
STOP!
i
requested
car
off the road
i
carry the heavy load
that
is me
she
follows
a
couple hundred yards
of
desert dirt
and
sparse vegetation
we
are by its side
i’m
staring
she’s
not caring
“can’t
you hear it?”
i
ask
“it’s
saying, You left me”
she
shakes her head,
“the
shit that bothers poets”
are
her instead
she
turns and walks back to the car
i
take a picture
whisper,
“and
the only explanation they can give
is
because one man sinned
therefore…”
i
climb back into the passenger seat
the
air conditioner lies about the heat
she
says,
“you
keep saying there’s just no reason to care.
who
are you trying to convince?
me
or yourself?”
she
continues driving
my
needs start arriving
the
oven outside offers
nowhere
to hide
from
harsh elements
that
hasten the decay
i
need a cigarette
she
needs a bathroom
relief
will come
when
relief is no longer
an
option
until
then
among
this molecular din
the
noise enhanced
by
acoustical walls
will
only be the noise of solar winds
that
blow away
all
that has decayed
amid
the indifferent hearts
that
wanted a new start
and
abandoned in an act
of
un-burdening
things
that went from love
to
just a responsibility
things
left on the way
that
now just roam
the
dark streets of decay
***
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