twisting string in his thin fingers
he sutured the slender wound,
yeah he fixed her up like new.
a work of art,
like a school of fish, posing as a shark.
when she came to,
her hands went to her face,
hoping for lavender, but getting plastic flowers.
her husband never got her what she liked.
he didn’t know what she was like.
she liked passion, he liked sex.
that’s where she picked up cigarettes.
a small prize for after getting done her chore.
he thought her vice a small price to pay,
though he didn’t like it in the house,
but when the deed was done he’d quickly fall asleep.
and then one fateful night,
whether it was the full moon or the wine,
she fell asleep before she’d taken her last drag.
and those silk dull grey sulk sheets,
went up in a blazing-red tragedy
and now the house burned down, quite literally.
and as they woke up in the flames,
and looked a stranger in the face,
they didn’t even try to make it out.
yes this was their way out.
and all that he could say,
for 30 years of company,
was, “dear, you know you shouldn’t smoke in bed.”