When the Thunder Died

Paint it as you want but
there is no we. No more us.
It’s just you.
You and your pebble-brained tales,
and blue birds of sappiness.

And somewhere between Christmas
and mid-February, your tone turned
from white noise to shocking blue.
Blue noise; you filled the air with
static graffiti and chintz hearts.

And by late March, I’d burnt
your favourite chair. Tossed out
your tacky plastic palm trees
and pink flamingoes that you stuck
in the deep-green pile carpet.

You said it was just like grass,
except you’d never have to mow it.
Never tend it; just walk on it.
I’ve been shaking my head no
to any faint scent of you because

somewhere between Christmas and
those middle numbers in February,
I lost my desire to go barefoot.
Lost my innocence in the back
of your tool shed. Lightning is
no fun after the thunder dies.