April Bernard
It was a storefront for a small-time numbers runner, Pretending to be some sort of grocery. Coffeemakers And Bustello cans populated the shelves, sparsely. Who was fooled. The boxes bleached in the sun, The
It pricks the arms like poison, Knowing that some things, once chosen, Are yours and that meanwhile the night comes Much too soon this time of year. There are things you will not be