Discovered. By Columbus

July 11, 2012

It Was 8 O’Clock

I arrived late. The house was dark. I kept hoping to hear your foot steps. Or your breath. It wasn’t that I didn’t want you to leave. Reciprocal break-up. The house was stark. Mad. The children we hadn’t had. Needed to be fed.

I can’t recall what season it was. A book I hadn’t finished lay on the floor. Saul Bellow. The water pipes weren’t knocking. Shy. In rhythm. Switched on the television. Joan Rivers was selling. Shiny. And very unstable umbrellas.

Pizza. From the week before. Stale beer. I should take a trip to New York. Maybe I can be discovered. By Columbus. Maybe I can pour my heart out on a street corner. The one reserved for red heads and foreigners.

I was hoping you might call. It was 8 o’clock.

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