her fancy dime life
her life was an open book
her verse a word too long
full stops a bridge thatched far
her length not short enough
she struts around the edges
grabbing light from shafts of glee
standing on high rise ledges
flailing a whipping wing of revelry
Her fancy dime life is an anagram
where her letters aren’t the same
written by the hands of checkered flags
and the back door to their domain
she’s a virus that hangs on the tail wisps
of that summer cold you just can’t shake
a bewildered meltdown alluding to atrophy
where the agents of clean pale the clocks face
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