Writing of the Creative Kind

There had been a fight. About dust-bowls and glass menageries.

Some of her pages had been torn in the process. Ink was now misconstrued.

So she made him exit her disheveled twin-cab.

He was swallowed whole in the night,

Folded into its turgid presence.

As street lamps stood idly by.

Monolithic watchmen in the fog.

Remnants of the break in days.

Placation and Separation in this tempestuous calm had taught her not to right wrongs.

Not look behind.

Not to stare ahead.

But she’ll testify. She will speak.