Caroline sat at the edge of the dock,
kicking her Doc Martens back and forth –
she couldn't remember if it was the fourth or the fifth,
and he'd pleaded the fifth when she'd asked.
The fit she threw was all for naught
and like it or not they were through.
It was something he'd read, perhaps –
and as his face grew so red
she knew she had to face it –
this was no new routine.
Things had been so light when they'd met,
but that light had changed its tone,
tone, or shade, or hue, or fade –
thought Caroline as she sat on the dock.
about middlepublishing