Matt Kindelmann Poet Blank verse

Her Pink Rubber Boots

They awoke to a classical radio station
that sounded so crisp,
its studio could have been in 
an apartment down the hall. 
They lied and listened
in the shadowy bed
while Beethoven and Brahms 
circled above them.
Her black umbrella 
and matching raincoat,
that were as dark as her hair and eyes,
were on a chair,
next to her pink rubber boots
that looked electric in the morning gloom.
She delayed the inevitable
for as long as she could
and finally reached 
for her glasses to look at the clock.
His fingers grazed her back 
as she slid out of the sheets.
She flicked on the bathroom light
and he caught a glimpse of her naked back
as she shut the door.
The rain’s gentle tapping against the window 
reminded him of the delicate sound 
of someone secretly typing a letter 
and when he heard the squeak of the faucet, 
he knew today was the last he’d see of her.
He looked at the ceiling 
and then at her pink rubber boots,
before he closed his eyes again
and listened to the concerto on the radio
mix with the sounds of 
her shower
and the rain.

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