slump-shouldered and silent, collar upturned,
hiding his face except for lightning eyes,
Irish country hat’s bill pressed down, glare burned
into your psyche, not because he tries
but due to memory of rain-shattered
day in October when she left like blood
gushing from a chest wound, when what mattered
were her lightning eyes striking little good
left within your tattered, scattered being,
your limp arm rising slow as summer, stiff
hand failing to urge her back to pity
you, failing to force her from the far cliff,
from leaping lost to all toward the city
below, leaving your self ever seeing…
Roger Armbrust
October 19, 2017
