Over the bed, a ceiling fan revolves
elliptically. Anxieties, post-****** and solitary are,
by the lungful, archived on the yellowed walls.
From his fingers the snaking upward blue smoke
of burning tobacco describes tumult. She
has gone back into the world. Laying
in the mise en scène of their aftermath
he smokes like a figure growing distant
in a cinematic moment purged of heroism.
The worn sheets, roped about his ankles, recall
an inmate’s noose. She'd been inside. For years.
The way she assumed her role, face to the wall,
silent as though it were a meal to be had frankly,
was a thing they laughed about. Her parting
glance was inscrutable.
He drew deeply, and a ring of orange fire
bloomed, briefly proclaiming love remained
a chance. Who could know? The arhythmic
rocking of the fan beat the hot air back
onto him, the lone smoker, smoking blankly.
The curtains billowed from the room
into the parking lot like some great tongue,
wild and mute. And under the window,
in the shadowless heat, a dog, limp with thirst,
laps at the drips that drip from a pipe.
a re-write and re-post. I've strived for meaningful enjambments and a sense of metre while attempting to sound contemporary