After the lamb, Isaac slit his own throat.
Stink of somewhere you’d rather be.
There’s always more to the story. We drove
through night, farther than intended on empty
cans of Full Throttle. A man on fire clenches
his teeth. She was beautiful pretending
to like the lyrics of punk rock. Antique shop
window with two dancing mannequins, clock
with a brass track, brass bell, brass people.
There is no end to a sidewalk untraveled.
The difference between cuckoo & time
is the sound of a little woman’s mallet.
The chalk line at the end of the sidewalk
rose up & danced in a small ballet.
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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 46 | Fall 2015