Cul-De-Sac, Steamed Glasses Poem by Arthur H Rowley

She tells me of the boy she almost married,
she is older than me but not by much
we sit in her car
beneath the rainfall that finally broke the heat

I was late home when I arrived
but that was an hour ago
she tells me of a plan, of sorts,
one she pulled from my pity
and thanks me for
I think, given the time and bravery,
she would leave me here
beneath the pulse of petrichor
and things I shouldn't be thankful for
and all the decisions I am yet to question

I know, her gratitude is unfounded
but I mumble my thanks for it anyway
as the metal of the door slips through my fingers
I think, given the youth and stupidity,
I would join the sky in the storm drains
to thank her for her company