February 18th

once upon a time

we went to a bed and breakfast
in west virginia.

a long drive down a ribbon of
wintery roads.

the name of the place escapes me.
it's where she used
to go

with her ex husband and son
and probably
her married boyfriend
of six years.

a pretentious

old house in the middle of
nowhere. a seven course meal.
one potato, nine dollars.

butter? extra.

a room
the size of a closet.
cramped and musty with
the dollar driven lives
of others,

the smell of old money,
new money, decrepit
bones and flesh left
behind.

blue bloods. green bloods.

a rough old bed.

a fireplace.
a broken piano pushed
dust laden into a corner.

I remember looking out
the doll house windows of the stone
walled room

and staring at the ducks
white and fat
on the cold pond.

how lucky they were not
being me.

the black cars arriving.

waiters who had been there for
years. grey faced
and weary
of the patrons,

each one more important
than the next.

I couldn't wait to leave, to run.

bored, no fun. I stuck it out,
knowing that our end

was near.
her lies had caught up with
her,

and now it was just a matter
of time
for the other shoe to drop.

mine.