He paused for a bombshell

from the quiet, still voice.

Unaware, I nursed the inevitable.

Several Sundays ago the sky was worse.

Late winter, rigor mortis skies.

Hope had been looking up,

when it was taken out at the knees.

Sad really. It had no chance.

We were fingering our leather jackets.

His without the arms.

Newspapers moaned headline warnings.

I turned a deaf ear.



He froze me with an interruption-special-bulletin look.

The quiet voice intimate and clear.

I pulled at my cuff,

lips moist, trembling. Pearl anticipation.



Just as he was about to speak,

spittle of prevision forming,

my ears grabbed an uptown taxi

to get a jump on happy hour traffic.