All the barstools in here have turned their backs;
those jackals don’t know
the meaning of the word pity.
From the ghost of a phone booth, Dad,
I call on you. I guessed you would
understand, being a former Navy man,
how this could happen to anyone,
not just your unfortunate daughter.
Send a pair of fallen angels to walk in here,
with cash. Do I ask too much? Very well,
send a distraction, an earthquake, a yellow jacket.
Outside mean streets, inside, a cold steel
chorus line. I will return the favor before I die.
Trish Saunders’s work is published or forthcoming in Right Hand Pointing, Chiron Review, Open Arts Forum, KSquare Mag, Book of Matches, and here in the Rye Whiskey Review. She lives in Seattle.
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