steam curls over the lip
of the bright red mug,
into the cool thin air.
the hand that wraps
around the red clay
is chapped and
shaking. long, thin fingers tap
the sides in an agitated
melody and a sad drawn out sigh
escapes from a mouth where a cigarette
hangs. the clock reads 5:35; he
should have left by now.
a motor hums down the dark,
lonely highway behind the house.
the finger tapping quickens:
that truck won’t drive itself.
those bills won’t pay themselves.
that gun won’t load itself.
just one more minute; then he’ll go.
- dustofsleep reblogged this from nightonthesun and added:
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- rubysun said: this is one of my favorites, travis. really.
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