Blackwater

 
hands closed around the paper sack in his lap
the old man frowned
cocked his head
listened to voices from the past
with a full-faced grimace
opened the sack
unscrewed the top of
warm sweet wine
brought it to his mouth
drank with determination
always did
when those voices spoke
screwed the cap back on the bottle
smiled a snaggle-tooth grin
closed his eyes
letting warm sweet wine do its thing
wasn't long he was thinking of her
a woman from the past
aren't all women
women from the past
he sighed
thought of Blackwater
a tear made progress within the wrinkles
etched on his face
tragically beautiful Sheila
and Blackwater
why is it that the desire in man
always begin with the
desire of another's desire
and so was his desire for Sheila
a May-September romance
the old man stared into the shadows
looking for truth
deathly afraid of finding it
closed his eyes
tipped the warm sweet wine toward his mouth
trying to obliterate her face
knowing from past experiences
you can't coax clarity from the shadows
and you can't drink away faces
truth was his dismay
it was during the persimmon smells of summer
the two lovers secretly met
lust and desire
overcame reason and pride
she belonged to another man
the old man's brother
blood kin
almost incestuous
the moon, a harvest one
much like tonight
they were making love inside
The Blackwater Motel
when the room's door
was kicked off its hinges
the cuckold husband
emptied his gun
bleeding out two cheaters
Sheila died instantly that night
the old man didn't
he absent-mindedly
touched the places where
bullets pierced his skin
he has lived with the memory
far too long
two people went room temperature that night
her husband reloaded; put it to his head
took it down
he was already dead
the killing of his soul happened that night
the old man sighed
turned up the warm sweet wine

©July28, 2016 / Jerry Pat Bolton