This desolate hill country!
He distrusted it
This hill or this petering-out path before
But it did not hold
Some mischief had been done him
Dreamily, with his mouth open
He looked at her shoes
A guide, to a chair with a yellow cowhide seat
Inside the darkness of the house touched him
“Yes, we are alone.”
The pulse in his palm leapt
His eyes stiffly wide
Sunlight touched the furthest pot on the hearth
But instead of getting up
He listened
To a silent declaration equivalent to his own
He found himself repeating quietly
“There will be special reduced prices on all footwear.”
But emotions swelled patiently within him.
It felt too heavy on his shoulders
His twisted innards lead him
Pulse pounding orders at his temples
Screeching wheels sounded in the shameful getaway
This desolate hill country!