166. Nights

Louise
Tapped on the tabletop.
Off and on, unbidden,
Her large hand would
Flash, and then
A glass, a book of
Matches, or a magazine–
Silver Screen–went
Tumbling to the floor.

Could not sleep.
After midnight
She sat by the window,
Deaf to Bo’s raw snore.
With her fingers
She tore catalogues, ripped
Strips to smoke.
Licking at them
First so they would smolder,
She lit up her
Cache of paper matches,
As she fidgeted, wild
To inhale.

In her heart
A motor whirring, whirring,
Speeding rashly,
Like the train in
Movies at the Rex,
Hurtling toward its
Fateful dangling bridge. Film
Set the scene:
Show the train–bridge–
Train. Now
Her turn:
Louise felt that
Breaking Riah’s dishes,
Everyone she’d
Ever known must know,
Watching, breathless,
Eyes all glued to her.
The train at the gorge
Leaped out to
Nothing, catapulting–shuddered,
Arced mid-air….
Hairbrush!
What the hell did
That mean, and that
Note?–But
Soon it would be
Over, one great
Crash! Whole
Town must know,
Each and every
One, what she had
Done. No more
Orders, and more,
When she saw her,
Riah’s eyes would
Flame….

Louise puffed.
Ringed in smoke, she
Slouched beside the window.
Bo’d had what he
Wanted, and now slept.
No stars out.
No breeze, and
The burning smell was
Foul.