269 Cuckold Lane

The following piece was published in the Wordeater Journal of creative writing and poetry:


269 Cuckold Lane

The crumbling foundation hides deeply
in the marshy farmland of northern Illinois.
The wedding house stood with many dreams-
It’s just another story of sprawl-
for the neighbors driving by
never saw a crumble.

In-laws praised this new house of frank.
Often they mingled just above
drunken on vodka martinis and other chemistry
required by the hostess.
A habit she learned from mother’s secret
all those years ago.

Empty bedrooms decorated
for unfertilized dreams
a low count will never fill
even after many treatments later.
The missing part seeks her heart-
leads her to other beds-
a new secret role she plays.

Electronic romance late at night as he sleeps.
The Oklahoma salesman is coming to town
in few nights time. A limo ride magnificent
the miles, his company credit card
pays for the space between her legs.
Two strangers meet deep inside
and one morning soon after, she takes ill.

Through the worries,
masked with shots of sloe gin
she schemes and plans.
It will be his. I can make him believe.
The fissure hides deep within.
This joy is not his.
The crimson tide flows-
tears of ache-tears of reprieve-
as dear hubby scoops another man’s
dead charity out of her gory bowl.