On Sunday,
The Townswomen walk by,
Their Labradors trained,
Like husbands in disguise,
And child-like cats on leashes—
They nod, a quiet judgment.
She should really pull herself together.

Her muse sings in sorrow,
And her lover, with too-soft fingers,
Mixes up apologies like drinks,
Disturbing the quiet of the town,
Interrupting the stillness they crave.

On Thursday,
She figures out that it’s her muse—
Falling through the marks he left,
Etched in his unfeeling skin,
Apathy carved deep,
And the...