had become an art form of
practiced deception.
Skilled in the role
of false sleep as quiet rest
the pre-dawn hours were spent
projecting dreams
over the peaks and valleys of
the bedroom ceiling moonscape
while listening for
interruptions in his breathing
like waves dying on a soft beach
to know when to get up
seconds before him
and be first
in the shower
door locked
alone.
After a breakfast
of mumbling over headlines
he kisses her forehead
grabs his coat
and heading for the door
tosses a
"love you"
over his shoulder
without looking
that lands uncaught like
a bloop pop up in
short center field.
She does not look up
offers nothing
and he never notices
and on the day
when her misery is finally discovered
it will be much too late.
Ken Owen
Van Niddy Press March 2018
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