The Sin of Belief, #33

Lashed against the planks of this ship
of state, of marriage, of constant
bills and endless boredom, mornings
in terrible proximity
and tightening quarters. This wood
that makes the walls, that shapes the ship,
that locks us into our pattern
of kisses, debts, Republicans
in Congress when we vote against
our own best interests, stare down
the face of one in the mirror
and wonder what wool has been pulled,
what strings and what subtle master
have we given ourselves over
too? The storm welling up over
the deck, tearing apart the sheets
of our bed, soaking all our clothes,

blowing in from the coast, labeled
El Niño, the cyclic change, called
seven year itch, voting cycle
and menopause. Blame the birthrate,
vote demographic, say The War
and all will be explained, expunged,
forgiven. Our day starts when one
of us wanders down the sidewalk
and the other remains behind
wrapped in bedsheets, trapped in terror
at the next incoming phone call,
checking the mail, sure someone
is out there coming to get us;
a one night stand or long lost son,
Osama or H5N1,
endless spending finally done.

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Author:

A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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