LONG NIGHT
We both wish we hadn’t heard you.
Now we are forced to lock the doors, scream
about empty promises and past disasters,
little landmines we set to blow our legs
into mist, to have nothing stable to stand on ever again.
Remember when we swore
we’d never wear your parents’ old clothes,
drive their cars, take responsibility for nothing
while roasting the planet and our kids’ futures
with black exhaust and luxury lawnmowers?
What happened to us?
Getting older was supposed to tighten
our wallets, lighten our loads.
Instead, we grumble at the weather,
treat strangers like they owe us money,
spend our whole night blaming each other
for the beds we were conceived in,
the origins of the universe,
death’s slow trudge of relief.
About the Author: Timothy Tarkelly’s work has appeared in Flyover Country, Unstamatic, The Red Lemon Review, and others. He’s written several collections of poetry including The You We Know and Love (Spartan Press), A Horse Called Victory (Kelsay Books), and Angie and Her Roommate (Alien Buddha Press). When he’s not writing, he teaches in Southeast Kansas.
Image Credit: Marion Post Walcott “Door assembled in place alongside old door. Screen door construction demonstration. Charles County, La Plata, Maryland” Public domain image courtesy of The Library of Congress
As It Ought To Be 