She sat in a railway station, silent,
one piece of baggage containing all of
her intricate, imperfect life – she was white
as paper, skin like ice water, “you can’t
be bored dying in a dignified position;” any
sensitivity left dropping away as
do hairs off a comb.
A victor walked by, she thought, “what’s
the matter, have you no religion… “
and then, a smiling copper – as if he knew
of her keeping a cupboard full of
alibis for all spying occasions, corked up
in old medicine bottles – she had no
proposition whatsoever on using a gun.
Sitting there, memories arriving as
do late trains – of when, as an
eight year old, skipped rope with half
a rope… of making someone bleed
regularly when she cocked the hammer,
rather as opening the flap of a tent
and stepping into the cold.
Of a nasty little man in a grubby mackintosh,
snuffling through pigeon holes looking
for her room key in a cheap hotel – peering
through his spy glass in hopes of seeing clothing
draped over a chair – then dark alley waiting, one
round fired… she’ll be there awhile, not forever,
but a little while, holding her ticket home.
Copyright © 05/27/2014 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®