Getting Out Alive
Store windows stare back,
as a woman, layered in mascaraed confection
straightens her skirt beside the stopping sign.
Pick me from the display window
if I promise to wear
a black lace negligee right
to the bitter end of the ride.
Sit down. Inside
the city bus, smells of piss and antiseptic
hard plastic membranes
palm curving spines
keep your hands to yourself -
I can’t touch metal handholds
without recoiling at their sticky imprints
residue of my human family,
until I’ve arrived, and get off oh
puffed from popping lytic cells.
Hey- expand that big ol’ consciousness,
share that shit with me
there’s no time to quibble about
who’s next in line
can you tell where to get out?
While I sleep tight, lie with regret
strapped in sackcloth
inhaling stale whiskey breath,
wake heavy with thirst
for communal drink.
the wells of the metropolis
Crystal Snoddon is a Canadian writer, whose most recent poetry publications include The Quarterday Review, Tuck, The Light Ekphrastic, The Ekphrastic Review, among others. She awaits the chill to be removed from a world in global chaos.