She’d come to this crossroad after a long
journey that had caused her to circle back
to the broken town; it’s where she belongs.
Why’d she think she could leave it and backpack
to a better future? Not for those
glittering streets paved in gold, diamond strewn
skies left behind in this smokeless ruin whose
siren called her back. With this gun she’s hewn
from bric-a-brac, she’s stalking streets she knows,
counting the cracks ’til she finds one oozing
a clown. She fires at it taking it down.
It flops into a puddle; its losing
ground. She stuffs its remains down, takes its crown–
all that running, the doubting of her plan
all for a moment and victory deadpan.
~ ~ ~
Image and prompt courtesy of Photo-Fiction #13