Thunder rolls over the Hudson; crews pack up,
heading home. The fading sun drips behind
the silhouette of mountains and fiery trees.
Leaves crunch under foot;
a shaven man ventures toward freedom
and forbidden kisses, leaving his nagging wife behind.
“For business,” he said.
He thinks he hears his name being called in the wind,
and fearing a ghost he hurries to knock on her door.
As it swings inward, he inhales.
Her perfume and the smell of fresh
baked bread tickles his nostrils.
She smiles and prances toward him, half-clothed.
He can taste the alcohol on her lips;
her half-empty beer bottle makes him smile.
She is only twenty.
Outside, thunder still explodes
but not a single drop of rain falls.
Surrounded by his secret life,
relaxed, he takes a swig from a bottle of beer.
She curls up next to him on the couch,
fire crackling on the hearth.
“How is your wife?” she asks casually.
He turns and smiles, “Oblivious.”
They fall into routine, drinking
and laughing, laughing and drinking;
thunder always echoing, bouncing off of oaks.
“Rip van Winkle,” it calls.
The man stumbles into her bed,
pulling her on top of himself.
Another bottle of beer, another keg of rum.
Calm and mellow, they hide among blankets for days.
Or was it months?
He should have brought a razor.
When he returned to his wife,
he would want to look nice.
If he returned.
His mind, thick with beer
and confused, tender love,
slips into a sleep deep enough
to hold him captive twenty years.
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