She

She offered little in the way of salvation.
No nudge of optimism.
Just ugly floating balloons,
jagged teeth of baboons.

She kept close
but yet
stayed back in the dark,
the lost area of
gray.

She treats me as if I’m
burning the unclaimed dead,
a pathetic sick cat with
frost bit eyes.
I’m like Mexican water or an
old Canadian trucker with a
Southern accent.

She scowls rapid like a
bandit’s gunfire. She wraps my soul around
her beauty,

leaves me
to scratch myself blind,

count backwards from one hundred.