1925 ended in September,
and it’s been an uncertain valley of creative shadows
ever since.

Someone is burning down the entire middle of nowhere,
and the heavenly smell comes at her from a breeze
that spins and howls with thumbtack laughter.

Like a dancer,
moving as though controlled chaos
and bloody blisters
will keep the pieces around them together.

At least,
it doesn’t smell like blood, coffee,
or broken dishes out here.

And at least now,
she gets to watch her skin and hair look like
everything else that’s packing up for the hungry atmosphere.

Another sun explodes.
Someone tell those outcast babies to shut the hell up.
Chicago’s skyline comes and goes fast.
The way her neck snaps back, then forward hard enough
to almost topple her standing on the front porch,
it’s like a bumper car caught between slingshots.

Everyone is looking at her.
The shopping cart is helpless on its side,
kicking its wheels at the air conditioning.

Her husband watches her scream again and again,
and waits for the manager to show up,
and sheepishly ask them to leave.

08/15/2013

Posted on 08/16/2013
Copyright © 2025 Gabriel Ricard