Steps coming down the stairs.
May 29, 2012
Maybe you could tell me. The steps coming down the stairs. Your shoulders shaking. Too many pills. Chasing you down the boulevaard. Maybe it was something I ate for Christmas.
Listening to each other. The last syllable hangs in the air. Help you on with your jacket. You ask. Did you tip the waiter. I return to the booth. For my teeth. They’re still talking.
Maybe you could die. And I could start over. I’d divorce the first woman I married. And go through the bitter redress of my complaints. You get the children. You get the house. You get whatever is in our accounts. I get the last breath. From your lungs.
Why does life leave you. Feeling used. And worn out. I can hear the feet going down the stairs. Its Christmas morning. And the kids are laughing.