Bangor MAG

By Unknown, Unknown, Unknown

   Bangor

Alone and headed south on rt 2
I tap my index finger against the steering wheel
and worry about Tom
how he looked last night as I rose to go to bed.
He stopped cracking his knuckles
long enough to slug back a Miller
and trail me with his eyes.
I waited in bed a long while,
tugging the lint off the blankets
and hoping he would come up,
but he didn't.
So I knew it wasn't o.k.
but I didn't know what I had done.

He said nothing
when I wore the red blouse he liked,
though he once would've called me stunning.
And I made him stew the way he likes
with lots of onions
but he hardly touched it.
I wanted to kiss him, try to make up
but I was afraid he'd kiss me back.

So now here we are,
he's probably just getting up now,
headed for the kitchen and a little hair of the dog.
Me, 45 minutes from Bangor
and not turning around

by J. M., Barre, MA



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This article has 1 comment.


Em28 said...
on Apr. 14 2011 at 9:34 pm
I love this poem so much! The ending, or very last sentence is my favorite. So powerful! Wonderful job!


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