The Probability

 

the probability
 
that she will be sleeping
 
when he comes
 
to bring her coffee
 
bleached white with powder
 
instead of cream
 
is great
 
he sees her lying there
 
in an impossible heap
 
of bones
 
her skin
 
stretched tight over her skull
 
and he wonders
 
if even as she sleeps
 
she can hear the birds singing
 
just outside the window
 
or the sound the bricks make
 
as they shift uneasily
 
in their bed of mortar
 
causing a startled raven
 
to slam against the house

 

Poem © 2016 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
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