by Tony Walton

Indentations

There has been an empty space to the
left of her for some time.
All that remains is an
indentation.

Those who slept on that side were
kind,
some she will not forget,
others are
forgotten,
Some stayed for just one night
faithless arms and legs entwined,
others for years and years.

Once
a wanting voice flailed against the
gated silence, until exhausted and left there
in the empty spaces between words,
for the less loving one was
rarely her.

The corners of her disobedient
dreams flash images
in which the empty space grows,
like a stain and
she is awakened
drenched in silence, her breath pooling
around her. Some time ago there was

a lamp on the left side, mens fitness magazines,
and a watch of some rugged wear,

now the leaves of the trees tremble on
windless days and their circling rings
advance into evening. We must ask:
What will become of this left side?

Ah! But stop!- and not overanalyze!
Rationally there is a tantalizing thing that
she declines to see:

Through those curtained windows
under these same stars that we sleep
down winding streets
humming with air conditioners
behind the manicured lawns with
cool sprinklers,
each night,
there are many such
indentations.

A pleasant Sunday drive

There are no disagreements as
we drive along, encased safely in the car, a road
split by the center line.
Practiced vowels, consonants and syllables
roll predictably with the hum of tires. Each topic
measured as the roadside poles,
the conversation’s selected tone
mirrors the
ca-thump ca-thump ca-thump
of the the paved highway joints.

We stare at the windshield and
think of things that must be said – instead,
the words shift, twist, and turn
in our mouths
like worms, then sit angrily,
before we
brood them out of separate windows in
silence and

continue down the road
somewhere,
the receding light of the sun
searching through glass then
fading
in the rear window,
frame by frame
until the light is
gone.