It's Done Poem by Emlyn Wentwhistle

Three wet days,
and a ceacked rib to boot!
So much self inflicted pain
and every other thing
a tangled mess.

Committing ritual suicide,
quite out of earshot,
I make the call
I'd promised you I'd make
in the bathroom of a downtown hotel.

Her voice clings
like torpid incense.

And I'm filled again
with that ancient confessional dread,
unable to say the thing
you would have me say
without a certain degree
of
conscious
inexactitude.

Old habits die hard.

Back at our table
I tell you it's done.