(Interview With The Marlboro Man) Rain and more rain. There’s no end to it. Water wells up in the grass around your foot, leaves a sucked-in squelch-print after you lift your foot away. I’ve been riding around in a woman’s purse for a week, staring out from the back of a magazine she hasn’t had time to read. She’s been trying to get the young ones to go to sleep. First one cries, then the other. They’re so close in age. She thinks it’s because she held onto the baby too long, letting it fall asleep in her arms, that it got used to the rise and fall of her breathing. But I know it’s because she’s in love with someone else, a man she once had a fling with. Her husband wakes her in the night to attend to the oldest, who’s crying Mommy, but in her dream this lover is pushing his fingers inside her, so it’s hard to get up. The shredding sound of water peeling under tires as a car passes by. The sweep of headlights on the ceiling, bending as they hit the wall. She used to be a smoker, but now she pays no attention to me at all.
Micki Myers Read Bio Author Discusses Poems
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