The McKinley Review Magazine

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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.