into the

At first I thought she had a cold: her
eyes were puffy and moist; she had a hanky
bunched in her fist. He spoke as if he
did not know the rules for this kind of
conversation, as if she were speaking in
colors and perfumes, not words. She spoke about
him, regretfully, desperately. Words and emotions
circled the small room like kerosene fumes
that had the ability to ignite into light
or heat or to dissipate like thoughts unspoken.
I wanted desperately to invoke an incantation
that would turn tears into hope and confusion
into direction, but I knew this would be
one of those times perfect words would
arrive too late, on the last train out of town.

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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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