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Garden Lounge

by Patrick Granger
Chapter 2
Neon bruises bloom along the waiting walls,
a glow that keeps its distance from my eyes.
I come here when the road no longer calls,
when every exit looks like alibis.

I show her picture, folded thin with care.
They laugh and say the blur’s a clever trick.
They do not see her standing clearly there.
I nod, as if I know what makes it slick.

I think about the stage, the heat, the wire,
the way her voice made room for mine to stand.
We played as if the lights could not conspire
to tell us what the ending had planned.

The phone inside still hums when nights are wrong.
It almost rings with echoes of our song.