| amtrak
You
run. Streaks of streamers flicking like pennants from your past.
Your
punishment smiles
half-amused, half-mastedly back, chalking three more
marks to misery and one more screeching fingernail across the board.
There's
no denial here, baby. It was all too good for you to feel.
Even the streamers lost their wind. Your need to be unneeded
claims its victory,
pockets its commission
and sparkles
like shopworn sequins
dropped
through slatted crates of could-have bins.
Mia Moore
|