Imagine How Tired We Are

Why did the poet cross the road?
To escape the man who grabbed her hand,
spitting out a spun line about how he knows her from somewhere,
knows her friend,
just wants to get to know her,
just wants her number,
won’t take “No” for an answer.

Fucking feral,
her sleeve in his fingertips,
wild lights at the crossing as the stars watch,
the moon’s mouth, agape in horror.

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