Swing, Shift


The witching hour has come again.
She clocks out, loves the way the

edges blur at the ink spill of mid
-night, the stagger of lone headlights;

the swagger of a lonely moon. There’s
a man on the corner who knows her

name. She palms him quarters, buys

him steaming cups of joe, vapor rising

in small arabesques. She swallows
Kerouac by streetlamp, collects the

rhythm of the train in cupped hands,
measures the mile between her last tip

and her first sip
in silent tiptoes and sober salt.

PAD, day 17.



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3 Responses to Swing, Shift

  1. gh0stpupp3t says:

    *claps hands* Good stuff!

  2. wiggle and melancholy says:

    In your title, you’re talking about the shift key.

    My goodness, this poem is like a perfect dream. A little spice, a little romance. Loneliness, aloneness, a good book, an intriguing man, being known, being named, being witchy (in a good way, I presume) … the introspection and deep breaths rise off the page with the vapor.

    I will both save and savor this one.

  3. A poetic waitress, I’m imagining. What senses – I love the arabesque vapor. Swallowing Kerouac, Palming the man, sipping, the rhythm. Very nice!

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