Double Trouble
She gave him paper
and a fine-nibbed pen.
At noon, dipped her quill
into India ink.
The before-snow sky
lasted like a perpetual twilight
as they wrote their
last letters.
Down a road outside town
she remembered silhoeutte trees -
every silhouette giving in.
They were so tired of being on support.
This is the police, bellowed the police,
stumbling forward, breaking locks
in their haste
to reach the couple.
Even in death they had a faintly greasy,
slippery look, blue around the lips
as though they’d sipped from the ink,
spilled and pooling on the floor.
