The Last Call

The Last Call

Moving through crowds

simulating sadness,

tortured;

the anxiety overcomes everything,

even whiskey over rocks,

or another

empty bottle of Xanax.

 

The sound of familiar voices

echo like dogs

barking at the park,

nothing but bad

Milkbone breath,

growls of suspicion,

or unimportance.

 

Too bad it has to be

like this,

in any other picture frame;

pornographic.

 

And life seems

to slip away,

a bit too slowly sometimes.

 

Just waiting

for the bell to chime;

the last call?

 

Or just another beginning.

Reviews

[Alex Zynder]

seems like the beginning of a story, even within the poem. wish i could see how it ends.