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Denise R. Weuve

As it was told—he thundered
in the door, brown work boots
bringing in the done day a minute
or ten before six,
ate dinner on the sofa,departed to liberate the neighbor’s garden hoe,
and dug at least six feet down
in our own back yard.There he lined his new walls in black satin,
and residual time, made room for half a dozen
of the finest ladies.
Colored the dirt harem blue so all who entered believed it was for a swim
in one of the six seas he knew.

After six years, she was done,
my mother tired of waiting for him to dredge mud
up the stoop, through the carpets,
and back to her bed, foolishly called out
through the back door to hear only the faint
rumble of laughter percolating
beneath the ground.

It was then she stared out the back door
and fantasized about the day
he didn’t return
from 6 feet under.

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3 comments

  1. Reblogged this on Denise R. Weuve and commented:

    This was on Cadence Collective a bit back, and I forgot to re-blog on my blog, so here you go followers. I have to say, it was a poem I actually forgot I had written, and was pleasantly surprised to see again.

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