Marks

Tumbleweeds roll,
a dusty screen door
screams in the dusk,
a line of rust marks
the horizon.

A red gingham oilcloth
gaily covers a kitchen table,
his mother’s favourite,
rosemary in a jar
gives a homely touch,
he stands by the sink
peeling potatoes,
a half drunk beer
on the draining board,
a question mark
furrows his brow
at the screech,
his reverie broken.

She enters,
with a comma
on each cheek,
framing his heart.

 

 

Advertisements

3 thoughts on “Marks

Please leave a comment

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s