The sound of a crowd singing
drinking dirges
off-key sent a city bus
through me last night,
I’m ready to go
anywhere,
oh anywhere!
as long as it’s
far away from here.
And where, pigeon friends of my youth,
were you last night, when I needed you?
You can’t all be dead,
I remember you, so you
exist, still young
and ecstatic, still wearing
miniskirts with tall boots,
then gray flannel,
poking hopefully
under leaves and shards of glass
looking for the perfect job, man, etc.
until we trip over our own shadows
and finally just walk away.
Trish Saunders has poems published or forthcoming in Right Hand Pointing, Gargoyle Magazine, Chiron Review, and Open Arts Forum, among other places. She lives in Seattle.
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