She counts all the men that have
come and gone rise and fall
tiny notches on her wall
and they will never know what piece of her
they have taken with them
and it’s not  anything transparent or cliche
words that rhyme or step away
it’s the subtleties in her voice
the way she touched their brow
and as they shuffle down the street
straightening their tie and belt buckle
they will never know the wonder
that she felt at their absence
the after thought or the expression of sorrow
for the lacking in how we have raised our boys
and to her amazement there is no hostility only remorse
for what they steal and never borrow
…a theft of the heart

© 2015 TrilbyYates