Tears linger on eyelids

without the energy

to stream down her cheek.

A dry cry is all she can muster.



A deep sigh

ripples folds in her blouse.

An unused brush filled with

dandruff flakes and uprooted hair

rests on the end-table next to her.



Calls unanswered, or worse,

echoes of beep, beep, beep.

She dials to talk to someone

about everything and nothing.



A televangelist flings his robed arms toward heaven.

and shouts from the small screen that

forgiveness is the answer.

If only she knew who to forgive.



Layers of emotion, distorted

like radio static on a stormy night

dance with images of guilt

and thoughts of dismay.



A dry cry is all she can muster.