by Carol Schoen

The brush against the snare
drum whispered
we swayed
against each other.
You looked away.

I missed a beat.

Inside the growl
of a swinging, half-muted
trumpet, blaring
and seductive.
We chatter,
I forgot to listen.
You left.

I missed a beat.

During the splatter
of a mid-summer storm
he left without me.
I glared,
grimaced, teeth clenched.
To hell with this.

find another

Carol Schoen wrote her first poems for Sarah White’s study group and has been chugging along happily ever since.