PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

She was on the veranda

counting boxcars

in my boxers

with her heals, up against

the wall

Smiling gently into the night

with a Dunhill

on her lip,

and a cold perspiring drink,

sweating

on the rattan end table

It was only a few minutes

before midnight,

but she had already established

her summer routine

No school, no lessons

no ratty kids,

No reason to care

Just two weeks in,

to her

fuck the world routine

She could hardly lift her eyelids

when I saw her,

She was already, eight or nine

tonics

into the evening

when I came home.

Was that twelve,

or

One hundred

and

Twelve,

She asked.

I must have fallen

asleep,

She mumbled

half

coherently;

I was counting boxcars,

while I waited

for you

to come home.

Was that twelve,

or

One Hundred and twelve,

She wondered.

There was a heavy rumbling

across the river

A kilometer long train of boxcars

was

passing by.

But none of us knew,

how many had

passed.

~/~