Wednesday, January 5, 2011


Sleeping with his guitar, he said. The
Bob Marley song played was just right,
echoed near the litter box, which was on
top of the desk just to the left of the bed
where he could hear the cat peeing in
the night.

Quiet, quiet, quiet, now. She won't
rock your babies. She won't buy
them food. She won't try to be the
one who pushes their stroller
through the deep, deep snow. Watch
as she drives her car away. Fast,
fast, fast, now.

The sun falls off from the earth
more slowly these days. Only the
outline remains; of trees, of lovers,
of promises never fulfilled. He went
away quickly but his shadow
still darkened her hand, as she tried
hard to remember the name of
that Bob Marley song.

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