Lisa's Separation

She covered up the mirror, hid his photo in the

drawer. The sketches that he made for her were rip-

ped and rolling across the floor. All memories and

promises and plans they'd made were scratched or

burned as Lisa laid her head down for the night.

Still the pictures flowed day and night. There's

no escape, there's no remission . . . This one's us in

Paris, and this one's us in Rome. That mess was him

in plasticene, those rocks were him in stone. And

still she found no explanation why he left without a

word. It seemed like such an ordinary night. Still the

pictures flowed throuhg the night. No escape, no

remission . . . They burned his few possessions and

they buried him in sand. They spent his coins in cof-

fee bars and calmly washed their hands. The only

hint of retribution was a lack of intuition--left with

dirty hands without a fight. How the curses flowed

through the night. Made their escape, a fruitless

mission . . . His ghost peeps through the curtains

gently whispering her name. It hovers over crushed

mementos trying to explain. And maybe it takes 40

years of patience, swimming through the tears. He'll

guard her each and every lonely night. Still the pic-

tures flow through the night. No escape, no

separation.