JAN 4, 2016
City outskirts are all the same.
They speak of struggle
and attempted crawlings
into the inner folds,
where mother’s legs are soft and supple.
Her pillars of protection barely reach
here where busy roads remember
their youths as sweet country lanes.
A wet jungle of curry takeaway
drifts through exhaust and vacant lots.
No need for a cash advance today.
or sporting goods,
My fists grip the handlebars tight
as a bloated bus charges past,
always too close.
always way too fucking close.
Its hot, greasy breath kisses my neck,
taunting me with its promise of death.
this fabric will unravel soon.
For these modest skirts only reach her knees -–
they’re no Los Angeles or London ball gown,
sewn tight for miles, flowing uncut.
One last summer sale and
rows of poplars beckon,
manning the exit,
lining her hem.
Tires chomp as pavement
dissolves to gravel,
snipping the final thread.