Letter

[tectak]

The door was open each morning when it should have been closed. You knew how sensitive Stan was. A simple draft and he'd shake like a slaughterhouse pig.
I wonder if he knew? Nobody has walls, darling. We think we put them up but we don't. You'd have your back to me when I'd come in, pretending to clean plates or darn Lily's socks. (Who darns socks after breakfast?
I'm genuinely curious.)
At first I think it was the minute popping of buttons which aroused you. I had the finest blouse on our street. Ted was so proud when we went to the pub, and I ordered a gin while every girl scowled.
Among all the whispers of "How does she dare?"
"With everyone scrimping she shows up in that?"
"Ted must have robbed the post office." You looked and sipped your wine, quietly held by some mystery.
Of course, each time, after I'd sat where Stan had just sat, you put down a sock or a plate, and turned around, accessed by that small popping. The silence itself had a charm. I smoked a cigarette and studied the paneling like a bored prostitute. I think that was part of the original thrill. You looked like you'd never seen breasts other than your own before.
Now Stan is dead and the door remains closed. You gave him the marriage he wanted. Applied lipstick daily, made meals, accompanied him to the pub now and then, bore Lily and Daniel, darned Lily's socks, cleaned plates, and mopped his brow each night near the end.
Now is the time to give me a key.

That's why.

Or, just because you make line breaks at random, doesn't satisfy the need for rhythm. So you cannot make a poem into a story....but as you can see, it reads very well as above so it wasn't a poem to begin with........unless, of course, you believe that ANY constructed grouping of words is poetry......bu you don't...do you?