Six Foot Watering Hole: A Narrative Poem

When ROSIE was a child

she never believed 

MONSTERS

were under her bed.

Why would they 

hide somewhere

so obvious

when they were

allowed

to live freely 

instead?

DINGY HOUSE - EARLY MORNING 

Light creeps

through splintered glass 

and sun-warped blinds, 

s-tu-tter-in-g 

the warm morning glow

across browning floral wallpaper

cluttered

with crookedly-tacked photographs

of a family’s long-lost smiles.

Somehow

the ghost of a woman’s touch

still lingers underneath 

the dust of her absent love,

that is now buried beneath 

dead skin of masculine apathy.

A haggard home

frozen in time.

Against the back wall,

an image of a reporter strobes

beneath the warped glass 

of a buzzing television set,

flickering light

across the saddened face of a teenager

sat in front of it.

JAMES TOMLIN.

Tear drops tatter

down the cheeks of the tortured teen 

as he begrudgingly glares

at the monotone NEWS ANCHOR

staring back at him through the screen.

From the set, her voice sparkles with insincerity. 

“It’s been seven years since

 the disappearance of local woman, 

ROSIE TOMLIN— 

her family remembers her today…”

 THE TIN CAN PUB - 7 YEARS AGO

Dead skin and dirt turned to dust– the bar and the barfly– a shared existence.

The bloom of diner neons m

cast over ROSIE 

as she drifts

beneath the strobing stars, 

hair of auburn fire glittering 

in the polished silver

of the building’s wall.

Click.

Dresses to kill

the immortal night

but will impress

not a sight.

A flag flying stripes

flutters a wave to her

through the falling night Blue.

Blood Red heels. 

White concrete.

The glow of night.

Clack.

Her pale presence reaches 

the silver– a shallow shadow shaking 

upon the steel door before her.

Berry blue nails.

Fingers pulling—

door opening—

ringing bells into the night.

THE TIN CAN PUB - 9:36 PM

Standing in the doorway, 

ROSIE remains still. 

Below her, 

in the checkered linoleum, 

her reflection gleams back

a soul, soon to perish 

beneath the swath of spirit.

A grand entrance 

repeated too many times

to be considered grand.

Every curious eye in the diner 

looks toward the doorway—

toward a beautiful woman-

that has long lost 

her luster

of lust.

 THE TIN CAN PUB - 2:36 AM

A business built 

for the pulse of life 

now reeks with the rot 

of the lives buried within it.

Festering air wafts 

before the cadmium glow

of the closed sign

above a corridor of black.

Veins now still with spirit,

ROSIE meanders from the bathroom

into the dark void

of an empty bar.

Her earlier, 

makeup-kissed skin

now replaced with the

smear of darkness.

She steps– s l o w– sliding–

above the solidified ick

sticking to the floor.

Broken tips—

nails chipped—

her tottering hand,

traces the metal

where the wallflowers 

bloomed before 

the dead of morning.

Guttural glucks

erupt from her throat,

past ocher teeth,

ech–o–ing–

off the soiled wallpaper

of the inky-damp tunnel.

Then she sees him.

One MAN,

at the bar

eyes glazed

with dilated

desire. 

SMALL BEDROOM - 5:09AM

The blade-pulse

of a ceiling fan.

Kwafpt…

Swirls swirling

above

a twin-sized bed.

Kwafpt…

Each blade

cuts

the molasses-thick air.

Kwafpt…

Sleep’s urge

presses

against

ROSIE’s eyelids—

Kwafpt…

pleading

to a body

that won’t listen—

Kwafpt…

Her stomach

still sour

from the abuse

of poor decisions

and past disagreements—

Kwafpt…

She wants to sleep— but— 

the man hasn’t returned yet.

Kwafpt…

While bound and locked

to this tiny bed,

she revels in the positive thought

that her sexual autonomy

remains intact. 

Kwafpt…

So… instead,

if screaming against the tape,

she’ll silently watch— 

the somber oscillations 

of the fan above her, 

wishing it would just— 

fall

before he returns 

and relieves her

of that comfort.

 BLACK OF DARKNESS - MONTHS LATER

Through that void of black, 

one 

small 

pinhole of light 

flickers

with the pass

of amber grass. 

“The only light I see,

comes from the small hole,

through which I peek.

I haven’t felt free,

or my feet,

in weeks.”

“Last night, 

we parked near the sea,

and I saw a boy and a girl,

in love,

as free as I used to be.

I wanted to scream,

and battle my bonded seat,

but I’ve learned that no one

 wants to hear me cry,

over their own glee.”

“Today I see no one.

Just untamed weeds,

swaying like bleached wheat,

in the high summer heat.”

“Tomorrow–

I’ll see the man,

who is supposed 

to free me from this trailer,

and I would feel happy,

if only, he wouldn’t

be paying for me.”

And with the 

slithering screech of brakes

the semi truck slows

to a solemn stop.

ABANDONED TRUCK STOP - NEXT DAY

Crumpled 

circulated green backs

stack into a calloused hand. 

Darkness scrolls up,

spilling daylight.

onto a sweat-soaked

ROSIE.

Tied.

To the floor.

A black iron cage.

Grease-stained fingers

release lock.

After lock.

After lock.

   (We hear)

A click,

of a collar

catching

into place,

connected to a short

controlling cord.

Then.

A yank.

A thud.

Dirt.

Gravel.

Peppering ROSIE’s 

oil-slicked

scalp.

The cord

is yanked

again.

Slide.

Slit.

Scrape.

Blood. 

Legs 

torn 

to shreds.

The cord is then passed off.

To a man, 

in a vermilion shirt.

Embroidered across the chest–

AMERICAN WEREWOLF 

LEATHER CO.

 A DARK FOREST - TWO DAYS LATER

Above a needle canopy,

the setting sun grinned

from behind dark cotton.

A sky

that had spent a dusk

crying 

into the pines

beneath it 

for ROSIE.

Not for pity.

Nor for remorse.

But for happiness.

Leaves tore from brush,

each falling with grace,

like snowflakes,

as the blood-soaked woman

dashed 

from the lake.

Her delicate feet

pattered

against the rain-slick soil,

sloshing

as she screamed,

melding morbid melodies

into fear’s frightened symphony.

Nothing noticed her as she passed.

Not the pines, 

Nor the needles,

Not even their sap.

That

is when she collapsed.

Crying,

she crawled 

into the wet green,

to be hidden 

by leaves.

She was alone,

But was she safe? 

Where was it?

Where was the man,

the wolf,

the thing,

that she was fed to

down by the lake?

“It was dead… 

it was dead… it’s dead.”

Also, was she placed

to be fed to it?

Or placed,

to be made into it?

She couldn’t stay,

but she shouldn’t wait

in case,

it came back,

to take 

her back inside.

that boat house

and feel its 

dry 

dry

tongue

again

scrape 

across her face.

Her eyes still burnt,

with the stench of rot.

Dead fish.

Decayed wood.

But her fingers burnt

from her grip of that silver lock.

The one she hit it with

over

and over

and over again,

in order to

make her escape.

Her ears echoed with memory.

    CRACK!

    CRACK! CRACK!

     THACK!     Thwack!

     THACK!     Thwack!

     Claghck     Claghck!

    ThackThackThackThack!

   ThackThackThackThack

    ThackThhackThackThack!

     ThackThhhackThackThack!

    ThackThacckThackThack!

    ThackThackThackThack!

THUD.

Her nose

tingled with the metal

tinge of blood.

Cowered in the bushes.

Wet.

Tear-slicked.

Skinned-pricked.

Cold rain

and holly sticks.

She felt safe.

But here? 

She couldn’t stay.

She knew she had to get away.

The man that bought her.

Will he follow her?

Angry that she 

caved in

his precious monster’s head?

Her mind fluttered

with fears of death.

Or will it follow her?

Or was it dead?

Thoughts of the creature’s

cracked 

copper teeth,

and crimson holes

of its caved-in head.

It wasn’t moving when she left.

Sure,

but 

Was

it

dead?

She couldn’t bear

to ponder

any longer,

so instead,

she kept running. 

And running..

And r u n n i n g…

A 

   n 

      d

           R

              u

                 n 

                   n 

                      i 

                        n g . . . . 

Until the forest opened up, 

and an interstate,

roared in front of her,

as she drops to her flesh-draped knees

and screams.

A DINGY HOUSE - SEVEN YEARS LATER 

Her son, 

LONNIE

now a teenager

stares into the television screen

at a photograph of his mother.

Bright teeth.

Bright hair.

Bright eyes.

And still– 

missing.

A ROAD FAR FAR FROM HOME - LATER

Hair dark like shadows,

ROSIE crosses a residential street.

Below her feet, the concrete

blends with the coverage of vestiges–

nature’s juniper fireworks.

Suddenly

her usual

victim-blurred world

sharpens

onto the sidewalk 

in front of her–

the pointless path

paved for “progression”,

that never “progressed” 

and yet, grips her feet

with daily possession. 

She p a u s e s,

glaring up into the blue

to see the faded moon.

Upon the way

leaves of shadows–

reflections of—

wind frolicking, leaves splintering,

vines spiraling, clouds glimmering, 

trees shimmering— 

free life living freely.

She was free now too.

Her chest rises

with a 

deep—

deep— 

breath,

inhaling

the tinted breeze

of fresh-fallen rain

and the sweet decay

of a forest bouquet,

and before she can 

accept the bliss of safety,

an OLD MAN moves behind her

ripping her nerves to confetti.

The OLD MAN waves an apology,

crosses the street,

and leaves her to her sidewalk,

as her moment bleeds

back into reality.

A school bus blurs by

in a streaked burst of dandelion.

Prompting,

Lonnie to cross her mind,

and as it usually does at this time,

her mind whirs with regrets, of

the time spent

inside that pub,

and not with him.

He must think she’s dead.

But that is the safest choice. 

For him.

For her.

For she will always be running 

from the man

in vermilion

with the monsters,

that has to still be looking 

for the monster

that killed his monster

and escaped.

And the faded moon

in the fading sky

kissed at the hairs on her neck.