By: David Bankson | Posted on: July 2018
Killing the sun from the joie de vivre
two birds at a time, she handed off
to the next highest bidder. The withers
of her coat shivered not in radiant,
bitter cold beneath linoleum hills.
I quivered & shed, slipping
in darksome stillness, & in waiting, bid
farewell in the ambient language of animals,
trees a mimicry as they leave leaves of me,
breaking their veneer in the scattering.
The luggage carried was filed not
in the opaque shadows of a plastic cabinet
but within the antique of card catalogues,
fondly closed as reference point. This
is openness, a different ball of wax
than a fiddler's bidding on a garden path.
It's second-hand cigarette breath,
clouded in false potentiality, not to please
but to tease with the addiction & cancer
we feel & hate ourselves for feeling.
David Bankson lives in Texas. He was finalist in the 2017 Concīs Pith of Prose and Poem, and his poetry and micro-fiction can be found in concis, (b)oink, Thank You for Swallowing, Artifact Nouveau, et al.