Outside my window, planes land
deafening, their wings too close
to mask the sound. It’s heavy
overhead; I gaze, amazed
as hushed yells now bubble up
inside my chest, where he says,
It does no good to complain.
Inside my window, angst builds
like water, warms then boils,
a teapot balloons to pop.
Steady beats the heart, rhythms
of monotonous moments
build into blame. Years pass by.
Is this all there is, she asks.
Katy Keffer, raised in the knobs of central Kentucky's bluegrass, is a writer inspired by nature's creatures. She is completing her MFA at Lindenwood University and lives in Reston, Virginia.