homecoming

you may be correct

she finds little comfort

in hands which remember

the weight of paper

stopping at a news stand

before the tunnel

before dawn

before coming home

purchasing the sunday times

and one last pack

of cigarettes

with a n.y. tax stamp

simple affectations

props for monday at work

left on the table during coffee

along with the smell of sex

which had hitched a ride

for no apparent purpose

she touches her face

you always were

a heartless bastard