Traveling under the cover of being afraid
to go out at night alone,
she walks past a couple smoking cigarettes,
hopelessly hoping someone will think the way
they’re leaning against the side of the building
will speak volumes about their character.

The boy is shutting down. Eyes closed, head down,
and psychological pet play dreams dragging him
down to the hell with a good-enough view,
and breakfast food that makes you sick every other time.

It’s a flight response,
because the fight
has been dumbed down to keeping track
of how many streetlights smash into his forehead.

And the laugh track has the gentle buzzing
of a tsunami gunning for a clean slate.

The girl isn’t actually screaming. Voice commits to quiet,
and she’s talking with as much patience as possible,
about how he’s a poison that’s eaten her hands,
and how it’s all just a bad marriage that thankfully
never got started.

And he’s nodding to the rhythm of delusion
of time being wishy-washy, easy to bully.

Traveling with tequila,
lodged in her throat
since last Sunday’s pregnancy jackpot,
she walks past them quickly,
and hopes they’re not the short film
that distracts her from the real danger
eight or four thousand feet ahead.

08/18/2013

Posted on 08/19/2013
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