Helen Loved Poetry

Helen Loved Poetry

Helen has no fingers.
Helen has no hands.

         Carl stared at the two lines he had written, absently tapping the pen against his front teeth as he searched for a word that rhymed with ‘hands’. After a moment of deliberation, he leaned forward and finished the stanza.

Her body washed up on the beach.
Lies reeking in the sands.

         Yes, he thought, that would do nicely. Both poetic, and accurate.

         Returning the pen to his pocket with an urbane flourish, he picked up the dripping garbage bags and hurried toward the door.

         The tide was going out.