only when

through the little wires,
I hear her cryin',
sittin' here listenin'
to the sound of me dyin':
makes me wish
she had never come,
not just to the romance,
but to the whole damned dance;
if I had a do-over,
I probably wouldn't
stumble this way again;
likely find a new field of clover
to trample
and make a mess:
like so much else gone wrong,
never if,
only when.



May 10, 2009.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.