twig on a string

          he put so little into most moments, it seemed as though he didn’t see
the point of anything . . . much

          almost, as if, he was . . . . . . angrily . . . . . . impatiently . . . . . .
waiting for the end of the world . . . and she wondered, as she walked, 
in slipper-steps, up the front stairs of the house, that fumed in phantom smoulders, if guzzling the joy out of a day, with unrestrained, wild gusto, helped kill time, or if he was gearing up for doomsday.

~ ~ ~
she entered the family home hoping, hoping . . . always hoping,
that he would be passed out.

~ ~ ~  

          the living room that stretched before her, was as still as a battlefield

when the shelling had ceased . . . temporarily.

          and then, like a volley of stray gunfire – the amber-eyed cat hissed a disdainful meow in her direction . . . the sound:  as jarring as a telephone r-r-r-ing

                                  in the black abyss of night.

          startled and on edge (though compelled to attempt to appease the animal) she picked up the crude toy she had made for him that afternoon in the backyard

- a twig tied to a string - 

                 and began moving the thing

                                        in mindless flips and jerks

                                                             over
                                                                      and over and over
                    again and again and again

                                                  until, at last . . . fed up . . . she tossed it away . . .
                                 having decided

~ ~ ~ 

it was a ridiculous way to spend another second of her life.

notes:  This poem is linked to Poets United Poetry Pantry http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/ .  The piece is a wee bit of a departure for me.  On a recent walk, as I passed by many doors, I began thinking about all the disparate realities going on behind all those doors.  My ruminations took me in a rather dark direction.

 In a totally different vein (for those poets who are interested) I have found http://andromeda.rutgers.edu/~lcrew/pbonline.html - Poetry Publishers Willing to Receive Submissions Electronically - an excellent resource; the best I've come across thus far.  Just thought I'd pass along the info.

photo:  Entrance to the Irving House, New Westminster, BC – W. Bourke  (The Irving House is the oldest standing home in British Columbia.  The home being the iconic symbol of shelter, love and security,  I chose to morph the picket fence in the photo - with Picasa photo shop software - as white picket fences are often used to convey marital bliss.  Sadly, the reality of what goes on in many “homes” is far from the symbolic connotation.)

© 2015 Wendy Bourke