I’m watching her run away down the street
through fog swirling and falling fast from quick
punches of sudden rain, running from sweet
phrases I’m still singing to her, a trick
of nature as my voice chases after
her, its volume rising, nearly catching
her raised arms, clinched fists, yet I hear laughter
cloaking her in surround sound, feet flashing
through cruel puddles, splashes slashing off
her soles, spraying bright droplets reflecting
past offenses, lost chances, kisses soft
as swirling fog, her gaunt form deflecting
off a light pole, now flopping, lying still.
My mind’s mob screams Don’t help her! But I will.
Roger Armbrust
January 3, 2012
