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December 4th, 2009
By Raghav Mehta
The ground here’s always muddy, and these summers get so cold
There’s a rusted pipeline dream, and he’s trying to paint it gold
Howard was a bright boy, but the man in him was grim
And supper lost its flavor, the day I married him
He runs on cheap bourbon, and hand-rolled cigarettes
Comes crashing through the doorway, like an airline jumbo jet
And when Howard steps to strike me
He’ll drop his hat and grip his belt
With another swig of whiskey, sets his glass on the shelf
He locks the door, shuts the window
And a chill goes down my spine
Because his face looks even darker
Than an abandoned coal mine
And though we sleep at night together, I never feel close
Howard tells me that he loves me, and that’s what hurts the most
