Grounded

You were hiding there

in that not so corner

dive, like an ostrich

in an endless hole

surrounding you

from prying eyes.

Chicken bones scattered

on wax paper sheets

rest in their red

basket weave

plastic coffin

between you and her.

Suicide wings, how ironic,

wings to hang yourself with.

In your cheap beer

and whiskey haze

you listen, proud

honored that she

would tell you her secrets,

words floating around,

mingling with the illegal

smoke and Kenny Chesney tunes.

Pristine rugs and

a just pruned lawn, a

low-fat meatloaf at six,

fade farther away,

to the burning

top soil above,

where eager eyes

wait to pounce.

While here sits a

new angel to swallow

you up and fly you to

a different place,

a new home, a new hole, and

new eyes to someday hide from.