by Jim Hyde18 Oct 2013
I am wandering this place, not lost
but thinking, wondering why I stay here.
The eaves above drip moss
past my shoulders, their rain green winter.
She is on the other side, holding out
the warmth of china, cup of tea.
But she's not mine. Her life has gone
to another, my hands now his,
his mouth on my possessions.
I know full well what I cannot do,
the court has twice decreed it.
But who am I to stay myself
when all I want is weeping.
What I do is wrong, but who's to say
she's right? Or him, the stranger in my hearth,
his blood now hot with taking.
I'll wait until he moves, so she can see me
I’ll own again
what I have not lost.
I have the rifle.