Unbroken

Unbroken

She got him all wrong, the strong

arms gone to brittle. 

Clay is troubled to form the

impression.  And longer the

art of your dented and salted

mire.

For nothing like a walk in the

boneyard of the cheap motel

of her imagination.  

You are Rant and Ruin.  The

Remains crust and smoke 

Tomorrow of her old age is

the rat trails of her poetry

I know this because she told it

to the murk and creep of your

deteriorating smoke.  The last

toke was unimaginable.

Run far and away from the 

wrinkled visage of memory.

You are red and ruins in a

slot of yesterday.

Today runs through her like

wine and bread.  The table

is set for never again your

chair is broken silt.

Caroline Shank

3.22.2023