Eight Syllables

The bed is still unmade and the indent warm where you lay last night and lied, There’s no one else but you. Despite your hollow words, I’ve crafted mine: Gone for a ride, may not be back. Eight syllables slouch against an empty glass without an excuse or backward glance.

Since the only poem she wrote in high school was red-penciled “extremely maudlin,” Carolyn Martin is amazed she has continued to write. carolynmartinpoet.com