the curb

worse places,
I suppose;
some chosen,
some led there
by the nose:
a cesspool,
the mind of a fool,
no water in
arid land,
the sweat
rolling off
your mother's
wiped away
by the back of
your father's

but still:

amid the shattered
shards of taillight
amid the forsaken
dreams of the
light fantastic,
among the hardy
weeds, heavy
with seeds
for more,
lying desolate
with the rusty nails
and lonely travails
of the dead animals
scorched by
the sun,
sucked on by the
crows, and as
everyone knows
picked apart by
the legions of ants,
with the solitary shoe,
the lost license plate,
the souvenir t-shirt,
the broken watch
just a minute too late,
the dust and the
detritus too much
to enumerate,


this is where you
choose to leave me?

no, I will not go
to the place forsaken;
I will not be the road
not taken;
all that has passed,
means that we will last,
or the love we made
should never have
been taken:
I still stand in awe
of what has happened
between us,
how much
we have grown
into each other,
into each other's head,
if it were not for one
or the other of us,
one or the other us
could well be dead;

so I rise,
I look deep into your eyes,
and I say "No,
I will not go,
and neither shall you,
if it is the last thing,
the last thing,
that I ever do."

I am staying right where
you left me,
until you come back,
and fetch me.

I shall wait forever,
as I always try to be
a very patient man.

August 13, 2009, for the Wifey.

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

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