Posted in Rituals

Inside Out

Posted on by tq1695

Stainless steel and fluorescent glare
unflickering
the shadow sharp and clear
I knew
why …. and who,
without lifting gaze.

“What’s the story?”
Punctuation and exclamation
“Story?”
Xxxxx fucking Xxxxxx
expletive splits Christian and surname with acerbic precision.

Workplace theft
door knock. Charges. Arrest.
Involvement looks away
evidence – she knows I know,
lying about lying to say different,
but ….
tungsten demand softens to reach for empathy.

She knows my history
confidence once spoke of frustration one night
two sober people
as the intoxicated swirled around –
confession
the uninsured remains of a former career
twisted
burned
voices that would not speak
suspicions not subpoenaed.
….. “ You’ve been in this position.”

Abstain
or vote?
Affinity or apathy?

I gave her the dates and times.
She already knew
was only seeking confirmation. I still felt like an informer.

 

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Author:

Most of my life has been spent on the bench, occasionally called into the game by extravagance or attenuation. Waiting has turned a loner into a recorder - nondescript and inconsequential, more not noticed than overlooked - the non-vantage point of children not yet considered old enough to understand. Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry is a lifetime of picking anecdotes up and not throwing them away. Stories collected like odds and ends placed in a box in the basement, the garage, the garden shed - uncertain as to what their use might be but knowing that one day there might be one.