The window stopped being see-thru
when she closed her doors and her aching bones became the doorstop.
The battered ballerina wept with stolen soulful blinded eyes,
stuck in a faceless insanity spin
she searched for salvation
off this merry-go-round’s masquerade of madness.
But like flat black oil spills a garages secret spread
of pretty carpark pick-up’s
& mistimed car trunk trash reveals
about a garage worthy calendar pinup.
Her words of warning fade upon its walls
of another traveller trapped by a lover’s betrayal
where she ended up as another chapter in this gas station’s tale.
[…] Podcasts of Poetry? […]
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