by R.T. Castleberry
Rain has shifted west to east,
flooding barrio ditches,
potholes of patched streets.
Wind tears at fuel station signage,
jungle gym park, bus stop plexiglass.
My wife dozes on sofa pillows,
stilettos off, Drambuie glass drained.
Her request, benignly drunken,
is an action I can’t complete.
On our first night,
she unhooked her bra, saying,
“I guess the date part of
our evening is over.”
A woman who rescues dogs
wants no children.
Sidetracked, scattered in
a confusion of gambling songs,
eclipse alignment,
I’m working towards resolution.
Straight shot Southern Comfort,
dreams at two-hour intervals
work against me.
Emptying my drink, I switch music
from Ronstadt to Dinah Washington.
Standing over her, I recall
a third date weekend—
emerald earrings against auburn hair,
reading her bedside book while she bathed.
Flipping to the end, the final word
was “Hell.”
About the Author:
R.T. Castleberry has work in Caveat Lector, San Pedro River Review, Glassworks Magazine, Silk Road and Gyroscope Review. Internationally, he’s had poetry published in Canada, Wales, Ireland, Scotland, France, New Zealand, Portugal, the Philippines, India and Antarctica. His poetry has appeared in the anthologies: You Can Hear the Ocean: An Anthology of Classic and Current Poetry, TimeSlice, The Weight of Addition, and Level Land: Poetry For and About the I35 Corridor.