That week

That week I came home,

Or at least that which once I had called home.

That week I came home,

For a lot of that week my mind would roam.

My wife and I talked,

About things that really didn’t matter

We went off and walked

And our talk was none, nothing but chatter

As for broken love?

We take our score card, another one chalked.

The hand in the glove

Hides warmth, like grassed grown pathways never walked.

That week I went home,

For a long time after, my mind was in a foam.

That week I went home,

Or at least that which I would now call home.

 

Copyright © 2017 Grant Fenton – All Rights Reserved

 

 

 

 

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