He glances through the curtains as she leaves.
And he knew she was going with him instead.
Desperately he washes his soul of her but its for naught.
And he hangs each feeling on the line and the cool breeze.
She walks to the corner and gets into his car and flips her hair.
He always loved the way she flipped her hair and the body after a drink.
Her body would glisten with the sweat of his thrust and the bite on his shoulder.
The car pulls away and he watches the lights drive off with his heart and the bite.
The laundry machine moves like her and shudders and vibrates.
But she will return with food from the Chinaman.
Chinese food was how he knew.
She never ate Chinese food except afterwards.
The clothes lay fluttering in the night air as his heart dried.
And she came home with egg rolls and the feint smell of polo.
Copyright © Patrick Cornwall | Year Posted 2012
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