you can tell when it's over
long before it's over.
the cheese
on the shelf of the ice
box. hard as bricks, the milk
in the carton.
a sour froth when poured.
that slab of red meat
gone grey
before the plastic
is ripped off.
you know when it's time
to leave,
when every sink
is dripping, the roof
is leaking,
the neighbors have three
dogs that won't
stop barking, they've asked
you to paint
your door a green, not
red. you know it's over
when she wants to read,
or sleep, or not talk
and she wears the oldest
t-shirt she owns
to bed.
Friday, May 22, 2015
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