Two silhouetted figures crossed Jefferson Avenue,
a dismantled street so wide that you get lost reaching
the other side. You couldn’t distinguish the figures
since it was a dark night in Detroit, but from the way
they walked, you could see one was a woman because of the
spike of her heel and the other a man from the step in his boot.
They were approaching the cracked sidewalk together
until they parted from one another. What happened? Did
they fight? What did he do? What did she do? What happened,
whatever it was, he made her feel insignificant and that’s
because of his uncontrollable temperament.
She leaned against a rusted, flickering light pole with her arms
clutched to her sides; she had hoped he would reach out
to her and at least give it a try. He disregarded her
since he walked into the twenty-four hour liquor store
hoping the beverages in store would provide him
with answers; which he knew they wouldn’t.
Was it his burden to bear? Was he really the one to blame
for her whimpering? He knew the love was there, but wasn’t
sure if the love was vanishing. He didn’t want it to end,
so he went on to find her. And there she was
waiting, and as he reached to embrace her
she said, “let’s go home.”