Janette Carpentier died
On a balmy August afternoon;
All through that wedding, her Mom cried:
"Don't leave the orchard! It's too soon!"
Janette Thompson awoke
On a faded August afternoon.
Her husband couldn't be found in the room --
He'd gone off to find more liquor to intake.
Was this some cosmic sign?
Was this a heavenly hint?
No use crying; this milk is spoiled.
No use utilizing belated kins' advice.
When that day's 2 PM came,
She was out at a video arcade.
He came to interrupt a high-scoring Street Figher's game,
Weaving intently through a crowded parkade.
Second chances,
Sideways glances.
Jealous tones,
Unplugged phones.
There was whiskey on his breath,
Rye across his chest;
She cleaned off his rented vest.
Maybe she passed the first test?
Janette Thompson,
Unsung daughter of a 7th son;
David Thompson:
He was the only one.
Anniversaries go by incomplete.
Promises lost, too many pennies pinched.
"At least he likes the kids --
Now, that's really something."
When they scream outside,
They stand under a sick old oak.
The swing-set, forgotten, rarely rode.
The spot smells like acrid old pot smoke.
She drives by decrepit duplexes,
Recognizing theirs.
That boulevard is broken,
And 13 years can't be re-spoken.
