Little Miss

The moon is still awake, knowing one still needs it

The token on the corner street

waiting for the one who will not meet her.

A bicyclist rolls downhill

Shopfronts haven't changed in fifty years.

Warm winter greets Miss Ruby Jacket while she stands on the edge.

It's the difference between hope and broken shoulders.

Someone else's father steals his lines and

Offers them in a soup kitchen.

Drinking casually, we're full for only one day. Or we

laze in bed while sideways indents in the fabric

remind of forward glances in memory, those branded underneath

skin. Imaginary answers are fed through cracked lips.

It's nothing more than a fold in the blanket, beneath the glow

of ember twilight.

Her mind's still set on a week before, sitting

wilted on a park bench, lover at hand.

If only he could dare hold it now, but

surrendered gestures surpass second thoughts.

There's a tired taste of stale smoke surrounding

her heels, which escape the apathetic, unjustified claims

those that left him to stutter, tossing excuses atop

Atlas' sore back.

Miss Second Chances offered her name

up to Heaven, trying to feed the notion

of loving, while falling asleep on the steps of

the 41st church. She allows the invisible

to cradle insanity, boiled down to

another promise to wager. She sent forth her next

free fall mistake in an ocean of unkempt dreams.

Her aching heart beats back

the forceful waves, eyes wide open

in the endless blue.

©amyatracy 01/18/2011-2016

Author's Note

(All constructive criticism is greatly appreciated. See About Me for complete details. Thank you!)