Posted in eavesdrop, Poetry

tumbleweed

He was a nice guy.

Your mother seemed to think so. Told you
that you reminded
him of that song and when you asked
him which, he wrote you a new one on the spot.

A nice guy.

The kind who would take you
to your favourite Marché Fermiers, learn to make
homemade cheese with you on your weekends off together,
and never dispute the validity of the Oxford comma.
Talked about taking you to London or Calabria.

A nice guy.
Except he only operated at one speed.

No roots would ever take hold.
No cedar hedges.
No small cabin on the outskirts of town.
Just arguments
over who got to take the cats
and gin fueled cyclones grinning

“I never promised you anything.”

A nice guy.

Tumbleweed not oak.
You were just an outpost where he could rehydrate
before rolling into the next town.

A caustic reminder of why you always
felt better tended to by bad boys.

-06.06.18

Author:

Trying to find the right words.

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