prompts invariably bring a song title to my mind:
She said why don’t we both just sleep on it tonight
And I believe in the morning you’ll begin to see the light
And then she kissed me and I realized she probably was right
There must be fifty ways to leave your lover
Fifty ways to leave your lover.
On the beach her toes sinking in sand, she again considers running away.
He wouldn’t notice her absence until dinnertime.
She’s thought of Mexico, the Yucatan. She could waitress, serve tequila shots to tourists escaping.
Or maybe Aruba, work in an art gallery, pretend she understood abstracts, learn Dutch.
Or Ireland, where she could take up guitar and sing plaintive ballads, bring tears to men savoring stout.
Or New Mexico, where the air smelled of pine incense and she could write the way she always thought she would, unfettered by censoring, censuring family.
Dreams walk her home.
end 8/24/2016 (2)