Crystal Snoddon


Getting Out Alive

 

Stand there.

Store windows stare back,

as a woman, layered in mascaraed confection

coconut-sugared conformity

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

     so

     baked,

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.

 

Overnight

the wells of the metropolis

ran dry.


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.