When the skeleton came, it was not what we’d imagined.
It was draped in New World jewels.
A supper bell rang in the piedmont.
It was the empty sentiment
at the meal when we couldn’t eat one more forkful,
the taste of dirt on a pewter spoon, booze
like a neon sign on the other side of day.
It was a helpful telegraph rushed to a stopover.
A waitress to interstate commerce needs.
A strange little stunt of a person, a safety,
a party line, crossing danger, the idea
of drowning in one’s own inevitable laws.