She perched on the edge of the couch
toying with her tobacco pouch,
and waited for what she dreaded most:
her heart dragged from pillar to post.
She let her cigarette burn down
to the groove, tar stained and brown,
and maybe she cried a bit,
or maybe she drank gin and it;
neither she'd openly admit.
Then, she fumbled for the handset
for a call that chilled her cold sweat,
and pressed it against her ear so hard
that her earring left a calling card;
And an even voice belied her fear,
dry rot with a painted veneer.
Fingers entwined in the phone cord,
she listened, and silently roared;
For what she wants, there is no accord. |