We discuss, but it feels like we ARGUE
We forget who we are to each other
We each wear our hurt
Like a BADGE of honor
Ending like a bad STAGE play
With one stomping away
The emotions linger
An after-IMAGE of pain
A restless energy
That shakes
the wine glasses in the cabinet

Georg’ann

The argument goes in circles.
Stuck on the roundabout,
No road taken in any direction.

From outside myself,
I COUNT the exits not taken.
Each curve a possibility.
Ooops, missed the turn again,
we’re going around a bit longer.

Out of nowhere, like fruit flies,
these exchanges ARISE.
Neither of us AGILE enough
to deflect.
And just as suddenly we’re on
a straight away.

I have an IMAGE of a large hand
taking the wheel, easing us
into new territory.
Talking of birds, our children, warm cake.

Heather