She sat on the porch,
sun dirt shined down while she chewed her fingernails down to their bloody nubs. Nothin to do or say, while he packed his bags inside. Deep in the cracked house, his swirled and broken thoughts of no-goodness, non-righteousness, unworthy of love-ness etched and scratched at the drab walls of his prison head. Out in the backyard, little girls blew bubbles none the wiser of Momma’s troubles as they skipped rope and shot at the moon. In the morn, they’ll ask “Where’s Dad?” And she’ll choke back her coffee, wash the burnt dishes and fold some laundry, still wrinkled with memories of what was supposed to be.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorMolly Roland is a writer by nature, and she enjoys stepping over the invisible lines society loves to draw. Categories |