Poetry in April -- in celebration
|I wonder if there is soul in non-living things
like the porch door, as Glenda arrives,
donned in Kohl and rouge, inside her Spanks
zipped to hold in check her thickened middle.
She collapses into the lawn chair next to me,
while her mascara runs as she weeps.
He has left her, the one fifteen years her junior,
“Plus, I’m broke,” she sobs, as the ragged wind bangs
at the screens, slamming the door, bashing the latch.
I bite my lip and touch her arm, knowing my urgent business
has to do with repairing, and since handled on both sides,
doors are for entering and departing.
Prompt: Let there be something broken in the poem