Sunday, February 22, 2009

Sad but true

‘I can only trust myself,’ he repeats.
She says, ‘I’m careful where I place my hand.’
You can’t be too wise or too useful.

He always looks over his shoulder when changing lanes.
She refuses to comply, flexing her tone-deaf muscles.
Avoidance pulled on like pigskin gloves, snug and ordinary.

Suffering oozes from his sockets; indeed
Making eye contact fruitless.
A relief.
Unsanitized fingers twitching
She wipes her hand in her pocket lining
Another threat averted.

Windows wearily draped in muslin.
Stomach mopped clean.
Heart chambers locked,
Checked, locked again.
She trusts only safety.
He trusts no one.

Consider this a weak punch at my recent writer's block by my healed left hook. I offer my take on the Sunday Scribblings prompt, 'trust.'


anno said...

Your poem shows perfect pitch for the details of a mean and narrow life. That you are writing again, though: there is some glad news! Good to know that you are healing. Spring is coming; hope you are enjoying blue skies today!

Liza's Eyeview said...

This poem is so full of emotion, make me want to read it over and over again to digest what it truly means. A great Sunday Scribbling for the prompt "trust".


Granny Smith said...

This is perfect in the anecdotal bits that add up to the sad and narrow lives. Your tone is just right. And this is a beautiful poem.

XX Phyllis

Daryl said...

Oh that is good .. a spat of writer's block was worth that, dont you think? Maybe not