My first inklings come in early spring.
Too many nights of no-shows
and his dinners fed to the dogs.
Last minute fishing trips --
knowing I'll stay home.
Hankerchief with lipstick smears
found in his tackle box,
and a woman's bathing suit under the bow.
Our time's like wind-up dolls,
movement in motions with daydreaming emotions.
My nights alone, a walk on a stoney road
into a maze with no way out,
and with eyes wide as an owl's.
The clock gets louder and louder,
and the barking dog sharper.
I wait for the alarm to buzz,
arouse my dizzy thoughts,
and put me back on track.
He offers me no clue,
no mercy, no reason for slipping away
and leaving me caught in his trap.
I hold the liquid and fight
the demons raging within,
hope It'll give me the courage
to wish him well with his catch.