Contributor: Todd Mercer

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She ate granola, I had scrambled eggs.
Wind made trees’ limbs scrape the house,
though I thought I’d trimmed them back.
At nine-fifteen low-angle sun
back-lit her dimensionality.
My shirt was denim.
She wore gold hoop earrings.
They jiggled when a truck down-shifted
on the highway outside and she said,
“I can’t be here anymore.”
The place still smelled of dinner
from the previous night (pot roast).
The door knock was my opening
to say a proper benediction,
but gravity tongue-tied me.
The door shut behind her
condemning as a coffin lid.
She didn’t slam it, though our calendar
fell from force absorbed.
It was nine-sixteen.
I couldn’t see the problem’s genesis
from the microscopic facts.
“Free Bird” blasted from a stereo
(Pioneer™) receding down the highway
(tar and cinder). I had dishes to wash
(Corningware™).


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Todd Mercer was nominated for Best of the Net in 2018. Recent work appears in: Dime Show Review, The Lake and Star 82 Review.