Stacy Tuthill

For three days he was Hilton-cloistered
in off-season Florida. Daily the Post's weather
maps boasted of black-lined, east-coast lows.
At night she thought sacred sun dances
and placed pagan prayer-stick bobby-pins
in her stubborn hair while concentrating
on his rest and renewal; secretly hoping
he had a rotten vacation and missed her . . .
needed her like a lost raincoat.
Beside her bed the black telephone crouched-
panther-like . . .
          silent . . .
               threatening . . .


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