Chris G. Vaillancourt
In August the grass discovered it could grow all by itself.
It could stretch its green almost to the sky.
The grass-cutter was being removed, it was free!
He was not going to live in the house anymore.
No more shaving cream in the bathroom.
No more man smells to ruin the atmosphere.
The house was free. Alleluia! Alleluia!
He was packing his clothes, his books, his life.
He was wrapping his past into green garbage bags.
Packing his clothes into duffle bags and suitcases.
Even as he removed his presence from the house,
he was reminded of how insignificant he had become.
Words flew at him like fireflies in the dark.
The woman was free. Alleluia! Alleluia!
Tears were not an option, he had been trained otherwise.
Face stoic, set in firm stone of absolute determination.
The end was the end, or perhaps a beginning?
Slipping his bags into the car, starting the engine.
One last look at the house he had worked to have.
One last sigh as he hit the pedal and drove away.
The man was not coming back. Alleluia! Alleluia!
He wondered who would cut the grass now?
Topic of this poem: love hurts
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