TRELLIS LACED WITH MORNING GLORIES


I don't cry
Half as much as I used to.

 

You don't pretend. Even your apathy
Lacks a certain conviction.

 

Together, we sit and watch the delicate morning
Glories mottle to brown in the noonday sun.

 

Where I blame a season of drought, you point out
My unwillingness to accept the inevitable.