Wednesday, 31 October 2012

  • The toughest will be Sundays

    Dallas sloughs off his back
    like a scabes-induced molt
    as the tires hum Louisiana miles

    Behind him are
    twenty-some years of memories
    four kids
    a job
    and a house

    He will not miss the job
    the intrigues
    nor the lady from the next cube
    airing her gripes in hushed tones
    clawed fingers gesturing dangerously close
    to his face 

    There is no scenery in Dallas
    but the crape myrtles

    The house was peaceful
    His six years there
    the longest he was ever in any home
    It bears his mark: tiles, wood trim, white walls
    granite countertops, garage shelves
    It was a refuge


    He will miss Sundays

    Sundays he was happy
    preparing lunch
    welcoming the kids
    watching Dr Who's seven seasons
    Haven, Community, countless movies
    When they were younger, they played games
    Went to the park or zoo

    The toughest will be Sundays 


    His back is raw
    Dallas sloughs off with the miles
    like a scabes-induced molt

    (No, I haven't left yet. It will probably be Sunday or Monday.)

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