At Curfew

“There was never a chance for me”
He said,
And the lights from the house of
Another weary relative
Shone with suspicion outside
His window—
Waiting to know
Where he’d gone
What he’d done.
She considered this from the
Driver’s seat.
It was eleven o’clock
And to the normal world late for
She noticed then that
His teeth were rotting,
Telling the secrets his
Face still managed to hide.
Pretty eyelashes and
Black lit eyes.
He counted out green tablets
With reverence
In a shaking hand
And she saw that
This was the end
One way or another.
“When I go”
She said
“I won’t be able to see you for a while”
And he nodded,
Still counting and recounting
There were only four—
As though
The counting itself
Would make more.
“Two weeks” he said,
Knowing all of such things
Including the lies.
She smiled
After she swallowed,
After it was possible
And told him he’d better go.
His uncle pulled back the curtain
And angrily waived
That thirty year old man

Molly Prostka spends her days in corporate America and her nights dreaming of blue water. She finds herself on the search for authenticity, connection and freedom from imagined prisons. It is likely not surprising to many of us that she often finds glimpses of these light things in the dark.

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