Barbara P. Campbell, 10/12

Time is a Chain Smoker

an addict
who never sleeps.
He is, was
and will be
the yellowy stench
every corner.
He lurks,
filthy hands
He knows
what’s in
your pocket:
the lie
you just told.
You speed up
he slows down,
though now
it seems
the opposite.
He has a way
of confusing—
making you
he’s loud
and bossy
other times
just stares.



Fly-By-Night Muse

A glass of wine
would be nice—
something red.

So I go in search
of a glass
and return sipping wine
to wait.

It’s like waiting for a bus
in the dark

when you don’t know
the schedule
or fare.

You might end up
walking home

crumpled hands
in yesterday’s pockets.

But now you’re sure
you feel the headlights
rounding the corner—

Great mothers of light
with outstretched arms.


Promote. Poetry.
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