California

Entry for "A Terrible Resolve" competition  
 
~  
 
Love never plagued him;  
he called himself free:  
he called himself so  
until he heard her speak.  
Really, love was a monster  
with hands in her hair;  
it had claws in her scalp  
that injected greed there.  
She said "California"  
in syllable-sand;  
had him over her shoulder,  
her next fourth-floor man.  
 
His home, had it been one,  
he left all alone;  
he farewelled the shambles  
and memory-stones  
with hands holding nothing  
but dreams, knuckles stricken,  
a lighter, a smoke,  
and a lottery ticket.  
 
His train left the station  
at ten twenty-nine;  
"Meet me in the city,"  
her lovely lips pined;  
her words filled the terrible  
space in his mind,  
so the demons hid well  
or the poor man was blind.  
 
The night came and went,  
all she said it would be:  
here, our friend dozes warm  
while the wild woman sings -  
little tones that could give  
Phobetor pleasant dreams;  
so he sank into sleep  
by the hotel TV.  
 
A few wicked numbers  
flashed into her eyes  
from the screen made a herald;  
she shed her disguise.  
Her hand killed the volume  
and silently snatched  
up the numbers he held  
with a sleep-lazy grasp.  
 
Not even a shiver;  
not even a gasp  
touched the breast of the girl;  
just a soft, wicked laugh  
broke the sheet of the night  
and the silence therein  
that, his eyes to the morning,  
now blanketed him.  
 
The bed by him empty,  
his fortune miles gone;  
the man found the silence  
so numbing and wrong,  
 
but the void by the balcony  
sang a sweet song,  
and he heard: California  
kills even the strong.