A.j. Binash

Rookie - 44 Points (04-20-1988 / Dodgeville WI)

Out of Reach

During humid afternoons Peter preferred the window open. He opposed the fake, cool, air of an A/C Unit, claiming:
"It gives me a headache."
That particular afternoon he solidified this statement by leaving the window open. When in truth it should have been closed. For traffic noises flooded the living room. Sirens, horns, bass shaking metal and squeaking tire rotations. Deafened the hushed tones he adapted to his speech. Still the day went on…
"There it is."
Peter said. As he laid a piece of paper on top of the table, the paper filled with writing from top to bottom.
"Are you sure about this, my love? "
Nadia questioned.
"What I have written, I have written." He responded with a smirk.
She rolled her eyes.
"Don't quote Pilate in this house."
"Why not? You could say I am going to a crucifixion of sorts."
She caressed her hand along the stubble dawned across his jaw line.
It reminded her of sandpaper.
"Yes, but why you? You're no martyr."
Peter broke eye-contact because her eyes had begun to gloss with tears. He walked over to the opened window, stared at the forever footsteps of the city's citizens. All of them marching off to their organized chaos,
Off to jobs
Off to charity
Off to manufactured ignorance.
"Someone has to do it." He said, with a heavy sigh following the words.
"But…my love…I…I…" She started sobbing. "They'll have you hanged! "
He turned to face her. She never wore make-up, believing it was a product for the bourgeois. So her tears were clean and pure. She never looked more beautiful, or more passionate.
"Don't worry…" He swallowed a lump in his throat and felt indigestion like he had eaten a plate full of spicy Cajun food. He walked over and wiped the tears away.
"I promise I will return."

Submitted: Saturday, August 02, 2014

Topic of this poem: government

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