Wilted
He could have
left her a note.
A simple "I don't think we are
working" would have sufficed.
The aloe vera in the clay pot
was wilting. He never watered it,
even when he knew it was thirsty.
Instead, she came
home to an empty
box. Cardboard rooms inhabited
by ridiculous plaid curtains.
His pine musk evaporated in her
arms; they twitched and shuddered
like a drug addict's withdrawals.
On the radio, the
weatherman
predicted a heavy rain storm.
"It's already hit" she whispered.
Her mind dripped questions
that shattered as pellets
into her heart.
Wiping the flood
from her eyes,
she walked over to the solarium.
The creeping ivy and dwarf palms
thrived beneath the glass ceiling.
With plants, she always had a
green thumb.
But little luck
with the human species,
particularly males. They required
something more than water and sunlight.
Copyright 2007 by the Tipton Poetry Journal.
All rights remain the exclusive property of the individual poet and may not be used without their permission.