Routine

Poem

Photo by nsiries - on Unsplash

The workday was over.

We drifted down Route 11 past Piggy's bar

and took that familiar right turn.

Following that road which escapes memory,

then turning right once more onto Fegan.

 

You had found our apartment after growing

discontent with my old basement.

In truth, that old basement

is where we abandoned our passion,

like the cigarette butt flipped out the window of the moving car.

 

We arrived home, but the police told us we couldn't enter.

We parked in the gravel drive on the other side

and walked through dew drenched grass.

Flickering blue lit our path.

 

We could see where the stray bullet

cracked the window to our neighbor's place.

The boy had died right there; I never knew his face.

 

A small cross was laid near the entrance to the lot.

Walking the dog, I would often come by the fallen symbol

and stand it up right once more.

All the while pondering how life seemed such a chore.