The ****** sits on the curb,
Her hands knotted together, white
at the knuckles and
Red on the light palms,
Blue of veins and purple under
A bruised fingernail,
Slammed in a car door a week before.
The heels of her shoes are caked in Earth,
Heavy,
But she feels light,
For her hair smells of cigarette smoke
And her breath of whiskey and songs
And she knows she can’t go home like this,
So she listens in the still, thin air for
The sound of a train whistle,
Something to take her away,
Something that won’t let her look back.
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 3:03 PM UTC
The ****** sits on the curb,
Her hands knotted together, white
at the knuckles and
Red on the light palms,
Blue of veins and purple under
A bruised fingernail,
Slammed in a car door a week before.
The heels of her shoes are caked in Earth,
Heavy,
But she feels light,
For her hair smells of cigarette smoke
And her breath of whiskey and songs
And she knows she can’t go home like this,
So she listens in the still, thin air for
The sound of a train whistle,
Something to take her away,
Something that won’t let her look back.
