Knocking on the Door
He stared at her, even eyes
as the door slammed in his face.
He knows she has walked away,
back to milling around the dwelling
wrapping up children and humming to herself
While he still stands there, staring at the door
at the place where she simpered
and slyly eyed him
Taking particular delight in the news she spilled
the sweet custard crippling news
that set the sky to dark red
and painted the roads blacker than tar.
She was telling him he would never again see
Crinkling her eyes like newspaper
Casting her wanion like a skipped stone
across the murky waters of his heart.
She was no longer standing there
But he could only remain.
Existing in the time between
knockings on the door.