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Sunday, November 30, 2014


He callously dismisses her childish desires
And nods condescendingly at her pain
A self-serving, self-absorbed scab
So Penelope weaves

Then he sees what she's afraid to share
A paradox of frailty and resolve
Touching her until she shudders
And Penelope unravels

But he's already drunk when she arrives
She begins to talk, he unbuttons her blouse
Cursory and rehearsed rather than intimate
So Penelope weaves

Then she reads his shrouded verse
An odyssey of perdition and piety
Of weakness and charity
And Penelope unravels

He scorns her infrequent attempts to discover
Retreats when she feels his breath
Never quite satisfying her hunger
So Penelope weaves

She labors to solve the wrong riddle
Faithfully and vainly trying new keys
Too timid to ask the obvious
Why bother to unravel if he's never coming home?

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