Broken wine bottles
line the driveway and front yard
like an idea for a painting that couldn’t hold
together its enthusiasm or ambition.

The car is stripped down to the essentials,
and those essentials aren’t going to get anybody
out of dodge anytime soon.

He moves carefully and remembers
that this used to be an okay neighborhood.

A police siren kicks in two blocks away.
The sound and urgency have nothing
better to do than spin wheels
and make a mountain out of a circle
that’s going all the way to China.

Windows break all around and quite frequently,
but the song they put together is tone-deaf
and maybe just a little derivative.

Anyone who managed to survive
that one wild year from way back can attest to that.

He moves slowly and watches
his step around the assortment of tires, animal traps
and random pieces of old stereo equipment. He hasn’t been around
in ten years, but he’s not stupid. His powers of deduction
have only ever failed him when his life was up for grabs.

Every few feet there’s a casket lying in the road.
Given the chance
people will steal and then abandon just about anything
when it becomes too much work.

The door is of course unlocked,
so he lets himself in.

The last decade can be committed to private record
from the blood on the carpet alone. Everywhere
he can find deals that went wrong, affairs that ended
with starlight from the barrel of a gun.

Mirrors and makeup never stood a chance.
Hundreds of flies stand watch in the kitchen.
They chatter aimlessly and believe in what they’re doing.

He doesn’t flinch or give anything away
to anyone who might be watching
from the other side of the timeline.

In the living room he finds her asleep on the couch.
It goes without saying that the pill bottles
start with schizophrenia
and fly off in every medical direction from there.

More wine bottles. More children’s books.
More photo albums and more flowers
that have endured the hours with nothing to gain from doing so.

She doesn’t wake up, but there is a little movement
when he leans down to kiss the top of her forehead.

The years haven’t been kind to either of them,
but he’s still grateful to be home.

He wants to kiss her again,
but instead he simply sits down in a nearby chair,
draws his pistol
and listens for a car pulling into the driveway.

Any minute now.

01/03/2011

Posted on 01/03/2011
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