He stares, submerged, into the mirror, slicks back his hair
and the moment of what could have been, rushes past, an
Unfolded in the time it takes for him to primp, her desire laid out aches the bed-an ocean of
mystery. Her eyes now
glassy void of his, the milky promises
seeped to spilling are the whites
and the once blue of
infant hope, now tragic as the state of constant solitude in company. Heaving her
body upward, she returns
to laundry to lighten the load of all unwashed
"Listen," he says,
his voice a blast of what's broken
and she jumps
to have to.
and gazes at his soul,
wants to take
a paper towel and Windex and scrub until visibility
becomes a possibility. "Top of the list, Sweet- laundry.
Socks, please," he says, halfway out
the door now
and she sighs.
The Sunday Whirl