Dec 2017
One at a time
Guys in bands leave Shannon’s
Apartment every other Sunday morning
They walk down the green carpeted steps
With scowls on their faces
They walk through the black iron gates
That shut Shannon in behind them
As they walk off, better places to go,
Shannon smokes her thirties away
On a third story balcony
She stares out on the black iron gates that shut her in
The fog will never lift in her highschool parking lot
Some short lived September through October
There had been no brighter sun
Than those mornings in her highschool parking lot
Except for the days it rained
Roland Gift had convinced her
She had been so duped.
Guys in bands leave Shannon’s
Apartment every other Sunday morning
They walk down the green carpeted steps
With scowls on their faces
They walk through the black iron gates
That shut Shannon in behind them
As they walk off, better places to go,
Shannon smokes her thirties away
On a third story balcony
She stares out on the black iron gates that shut her in
The fog will never lift in her highschool parking lot
Some short lived September through October
There had been no brighter sun
Than those mornings in her highschool parking lot
Except for the days it rained
Roland Gift had convinced her
She had been so duped.
If she pictured herself dying, she pictured her self lying down with a copy of open book titled “The Short Life Of Carl Sanders” in one hand and maybe a flower in the other hand. Something red, probably a poppy between her finger and her thumb. The sagging petals would drift away by the time she was found, the way petals always do.
Just the other day she pictured that.
Just the other day she pictured that.
