"unhelpful" poems - Hello Poetry

Limbs littered the earth, her negligee no longer lay in his soldier’s world; he would do anything to smell her perfume once more. What day was it? Ahhh…Monday, the perfect first date, a moon- lit walk on a beach. He felt like a train about to crash and nobody was dancing. She felt alien alone in their home. Dancing was impossible and she stared at the photo, a soldier’s face, not his own. Limbo was a train journey that never ended. Billboards advertising perfume and the never ending sun, the never ending moon. The name of the days changed but Monday was no different from Tuesday or last Monday. She wondered if disabled people thought dancing ridiculous. He could return disabled…the moon was full tonight, she wondered if he in his soldier’s uniform would be admiring it remembering her perfume and not side stepping dead bodies feeling like a train wreck. How many poor driver’s of trains were haunted by suicides, faces looming out, the Monday blues? And some women will never afford perfume and would never be taken out dancing, it did not console her. She was one of thousands of soldier’s wives all gazing wistfully at the unhelpful moon. She dreams of werewolves howling at the moon, of him passing through a dark forest on a train coming back to her, having thrown his soldier’s gun, stamped in the mud, rejected. But she was the gun, Monday and no letter had come and her nerves were dancing, she knocked over her most expensive bottle of perfume. He was dead, she would never replace the perfume. She would smash bottles sticking her tongue out at the moon throwing herself around in life, dancing like a boat in a storm, occasionally consider suicide by train but she would never do it. Saturday, Sunday, Monday all days trooped past like the heavy march of a soldier. The word soldier stank of cheap perfume and everything was mundane especially the moon. People hurry her by like late trains, only a few whirl past dancing.

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Jun 12, 2010

Jun 12, 2010 at 4:10 PM UTC

charise-clarke

Perfume

Limbs littered the earth, her negligee no longer lay in his soldier’s world; he would do anything to smell her perfume once more. What day was it? Ahhh…Monday, the perfect first date, a moon- lit walk on a beach. He felt like a train about to crash and nobody was dancing. She felt alien alone in their home. Dancing was impossible and she stared at the photo, a soldier’s face, not his own. Limbo was a train journey that never ended. Billboards advertising perfume and the never ending sun, the never ending moon. The name of the days changed but Monday was no different from Tuesday or last Monday. She wondered if disabled people thought dancing ridiculous. He could return disabled…the moon was full tonight, she wondered if he in his soldier’s uniform would be admiring it remembering her perfume and not side stepping dead bodies feeling like a train wreck. How many poor driver’s of trains were haunted by suicides, faces looming out, the Monday blues? And some women will never afford perfume and would never be taken out dancing, it did not console her. She was one of thousands of soldier’s wives all gazing wistfully at the unhelpful moon. She dreams of werewolves howling at the moon, of him passing through a dark forest on a train coming back to her, having thrown his soldier’s gun, stamped in the mud, rejected. But she was the gun, Monday and no letter had come and her nerves were dancing, she knocked over her most expensive bottle of perfume. He was dead, she would never replace the perfume. She would smash bottles sticking her tongue out at the moon throwing herself around in life, dancing like a boat in a storm, occasionally consider suicide by train but she would never do it. Saturday, Sunday, Monday all days trooped past like the heavy march of a soldier. The word soldier stank of cheap perfume and everything was mundane especially the moon. People hurry her by like late trains, only a few whirl past dancing.