Lines of Poetry

 

The day is over. She drinks a cold beer. Smokes a cigarette.

An old boyfriend’s dark, flannel shirt, plain jeans and boots.

The road she looks on goes nowhere. It goes to the lake. To home.

 

The insects give their grating, hissing howl as the sun fades.

Her hair she’s kept long, but it’s always up in a messy ponytail.

Her hair is dark. She sips her cold beer. The cigarette burns perfectly.

 

This little place is hers. Coyotes have been seen nearby. Motion lights.

There is no god to notice her contentment. Or her fear. Or muttered words.

Coyotes, ever close. And turtle doves nest in her pear tree. The road takes pets.

 

Last drop of beer. Cigarette burnt out. Time to type out her harsh words.

The lines of poetry, like the lines of barbed wire fences, stop her enemies.

The lines of poetry, the only prayers left, speak to those she does not know.

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