By Abby LeCavalier
Quickstep walking
lips curled
in placating ways,
thundering down the street
like some deranged mechanical bull,
maniacal.
Obscure reflections
in dirty car windows,
brief and powerful,
THIS was never Toy Land
to her.
She is in no shape for today
or tomorrow
for that matter,
never stopping to smell rosemary.
Racing like she used to race,
backed up against
some imaginary wall,
she has no choice,
a driving ambition
to be ambitious.
Giving life a run for its money,
a real run,
not just bold talk
in a brandy soaked gin joint
downtown.
And she doesn’t care
what is thought of her,
because she couldn’t think herself
any less.
Clutching at Straws 