tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3523954211813015362024-03-14T23:12:02.373+11:00Peter LangstonWords, Images, IdeasPeter Langstonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01444886994210854403noreply@blogger.comBlogger1125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-352395421181301536.post-46099740741209251862016-12-18T09:00:00.006+11:002022-02-13T13:27:41.974+11:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjSSgOhknmnYzYy5qQmMJTxOGwyxaTIbCVTy_jJHMjTLbjMsdkbfSgcuMcdy_zaRmNdvlI8WNjKy4ZYQkbxvko4EhGd-lsBylgnxwZDSA2VR9q_ZfKcECFccAR-VIQlSwGMxCR6hroucA/s1600/Logowebsite.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjSSgOhknmnYzYy5qQmMJTxOGwyxaTIbCVTy_jJHMjTLbjMsdkbfSgcuMcdy_zaRmNdvlI8WNjKy4ZYQkbxvko4EhGd-lsBylgnxwZDSA2VR9q_ZfKcECFccAR-VIQlSwGMxCR6hroucA/s200/Logowebsite.jpg" width="141" /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.44; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;">
<div class="Body">
<div class="Body">
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.44; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
Tuesdays<br /><br />
Tuesday afternoon<br />
ruffled through her assorted loneliness<br />
like so many Tuesday predecessors.<br />
Mondays made sadness understatements<br />
while salvation lived at the end of the week<br />
but it was always a Tuesday<br />
that would<br />
end it.<br />
<br />
Alone with the same problems<br />
the same solutions<br />
the same little bottle of assassins.<br />
A brittle childlike blinkered view<br />
betrayed by<br />
her strong adult grip,<br />
press and twist,<br />
let those drops of freedom loose.<br />
<br />
A thought passed by<br />
as though it might escape<br />
but as it paused playfully<br />
she grabbed it like a slow butterfly<br />
turned it over<br />
considered it<br />
without perceiving the beauty,<br />
the alternative it offered.<br />
<br />
Who would care?<br />
<br />
A deep handful<br />
swallowing the question with them<br />
washing them down<br />
with a single, long, slow gulp of Jack<br />
sending them off to calm her agony<br />
to quiet the noise.<br />
<br />
Who would care now?<br />
<br />
So many Tuesdays<br />
waiting for someone to care<br />
Friday was for music<br />
Saturday was for sex<br />
Sunday was for church<br />
Monday was for regret<br />
Tuesdays she needed someone to care<br />
Tuesday always came but<br />
Not a voice<br />
Not a cuppa<br />
Not a single hug<br />
Not one listening ear<br />
<br />
Patch nuzzled<br />
His warm fur brushing skin<br />
at a torn denim knee<br />
then crawled in his own time<br />
to her lap, then arms.<br />
Head to her neck<br />
his motor running.<br />
So often it had been enough.<br />
Not this last Tuesday.<br />
<br />
Eyes stinging<br />
she sleeved the regret away<br />
looked across the brown river bend<br />
took an unintended lean back<br />
against Grandpa’s favourite river gum<br />
The sneaky beginning of the afternoon breeze<br />
kissed her gently goodbye.<br />
Swish<br />
Swallow<br />
Gulp<br />
Whisky burp<br />
<br />
Closing her eyes on trouble,<br />
her breathing slowing,<br />
she started the long sleep<br />
other Tuesdays had promised.<br />
<br />
She was gone by dusk<br />
Didn’t hear Pop Pethybridge ride up the paddock<br />
didn’t see her neighbour’s tears<br />
hear his sobs<br />
his old soul breaking.<br />
Couldn’t accept his distraught apology,<br />
uttered through uncharacteristic cursing<br />
crouching there by Jimmy’s tree ...<br />
… for not checking on her earlier<br />
He knew she hated fucking Tuesdays.<br />
<br />
She sat there in the last rays,<br />
freshening breeze moving her hair,<br />
brushing her face,<br />
tidying her quiet smile,<br />
peaceful<br />
free.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Copyright from "Poems At A Social Distance" (2022)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div>Peter Langstonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01444886994210854403noreply@blogger.com