FAIR ESCAPE
there is a weight
to waiting, like a
rock resting in your
palm until you take
your three steps, your
small action and let
the wait begin to
build again.
everything boiled
down to folder paper
in pockets, raffle tickets
without any waiting
prizes, near notarized
note cards, that strange
economy built for the
minutes and minutia
of evenings.
scissors seem always
to come last, fates cast
by fingers until you slip
out again into a starless
night, any heaven drowned
by the cities, except, perhaps
a spectral moon, under which
you can leave behind, as
is sometimes best, that person
you were pretending to be.
