poetry

A Banal Sort of Betrayal.

The mid century outdoor sconce
I helped your wife install last summer
illuminates;
your slightly receding hairline,
5 day old stubble,
sweat stains on a blouse,
the glint of a best friend charm on my wrist-
and your forehead slick with guilt
when my arms, encircling your neck,
remind you
that we never truly cared
about all the lines we’ve crossed.

© Nancy Botta, 2018

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