Last Time

I sit on our grey couch

with its torn cover

and worn strands that once held together

and listen

for your truck’s snarling engine

to announce your late arrival

and I panic for a second

thinking Stony

won’t steer clear

of your balding right front tire

and will disappear

a mangled clump

of chain and brown-black fur

coughing blood

beneath swirls of red clay

dust and gravel

until

I hear him

growling

his low bark

from the doghouse

and recall

just how old the mutt’s become

and start the slow pained stand up

to meet you

at the back door,

like you tell me,

and I run

a calloused finger

across the rusty latch

and amuse myself

with thinking

that this time

I might just leave

it locked,

but then

you’d force your way in,

and you’d pull out

your

big guns

how you love

how much you hate

when I resist

so

I slouch

inside

this simple dress

and wish

my smile

was a bit

less practiced

like the grimace

smugly leering

from behind your bloodshot eyes

and you come

nearer

as that blasted

telephone erupts

disrupting

the fragile stand-off

screaming like

a newborn

and I speak

into the phone

with that voice

the Reverend uses

—as if lambs could ever think that wolves are harmless—

and I cup my fingers

over the receiver

so the caller

cannot hear

that your fingers

are now probing

Thursday’s panties

and I'm promising Esmeralda

I’ll come

to Ice Cream Social

and am quick

to hang the phone up

before

your patience

find its end

***

Copyright © 02/16/1999 by Christy Munson. All rights reserved.