The Other Woman

The Other Woman brushes her
hair 100 times with a hairbrush
shaped like a teardrop.
She knows one day her hair
will turn white, but he likely
won't be there to see it.

Alone and unsung to, the moon
implodes. It splinters the old
oak tree and a displaced
wren beats at her windowsill,
brown eyes begging.

She taps polished nails
along the curve of her phone;
lightning shoots from her fingertips.
The clock quivers twelve chimes
but, still, no car arrives
in the driveway.

She slips from satin to cotton, creams
her face, writes yet another goodbye
note she'll shred before sending. At dawn,
window thrust wide, she sighs,
lets the poor wretched wren rush in.