NaPoMo #20

20 The Happy Hour


For an hour each night, the children bathed

and bedded down with stuffed bunnies and Pooh,

she lay white-nightied in the chirping dark to wonder

if her husband were alive, whiskey-soured and darting,

or in the literal gutter instead, with motorcycled men lit blue

in flashes attempting to identify grey matter, teeth, bone, glasses,

splattered, shattered, sharding the pavement, guard rail, trees, and grass.

Then the drone of exhausted rubber airless on asphalt ended the hour again.



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