Ink lings


I pace.
Tension etching lines upon my face.
How long has it been?
The clock ticks glumly in the hall

Time passes slowly, no quickly
Oh I don’t know
My world moves in slow motion
Why isn’t she home?
Why hasn’t she called?

Fear hangs on me like a shroud
The silence is oppressive
Shadows cast their pall upon the room
I sit, I stand, only to pace again

Wait! Was that the phone?
I listen. Yes, I hear it.
I rush to silence the urgent ring

Hello! Hello! Yes, this is he
Yes, she is my daughter.
Where is she?
Where?  Oh my god

Is she ok? Please, is she ok?
She what? No.  Oh no.
Are you sure?  Oh God

I saw it on the news
A silver car
There are so many, you know?
I prayed it wasn’t her
I didn’t know what to do

I was afraid…

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About oldmainer

I am retired and live in southern Maine with my wife and two dogs. I started Oldmainer as an outlet for my occasional opinions and random observations, with some poetry thrown in. I welcome anyone that wants to kick back and join me here on the porch, exploring all the gifts we have been given and the memories collected. Thanks for stopping by.
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