untouched whiskey

[thymeandoliveleaf]

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it's quiet and it's sunny
the whiskeys sit in ease.
the little things are funny
she can't whistle but she sings.

the garden crawls with critters
the suburb slowing down
so calm it gives her jitters;
she's bright as a little pink crayon

but conversations elsewhere grow
the stake are high
and words are thrown

but verbalizing all these things
is the least of what the evening brings.

he throws a plate, rolls up his cuffs
it's done but yet it's not enough

the damage moves across the room
into the arms where conflict looms.

this other girl, she knows it's bound
she runs away and screams so loud

for all the things she said so mean
her body will be brown and green.

Little crayon can't stand the thought;
she makes her move like a meddling fox

He looks at her in disbelief--
an expression forged of shock and grief

and little crayon is thrown aside
like a tumbling shell in the Florida tide

and suddenly at his angry whim,
she loses breath and her sight goes dim.

It all caves in. It turns to black.
and he laughs at it all! A haughty attack

After all of the dark she runs out to the sun
but it's not so bright and she just feels numb.

It's quiet and it's dark

the whiskey's drained
their thoughts enslaved
his violence tamed
but the problem unnamed

the little things aren't funny
she can't whistle and she can't even talk