The child goes willingly,offering up her rosebudbackpack to the police.Up there and outsideis the snow, the scrapedsky, the barbershopquartet, the fourteen-dollar glass of wine,livid pigeons, RikersIsland, ice skatersembracing, the riseand fall of some butnot all things relevantto our story. The girl’smother flickers behindher. The policemangrins like a ficklefather. Someone pingsa steel drum downbelow all this. Thetunnel’s metal marrowhums its hymn, blurtspixels that bid us toobey. If you see some-thing, say something.If you’re here, pay.
NYC
Robin Myers
Feature Date
- March 9, 2019
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Copyright © 2019 by Robin Myers
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission.
Fall 2018
Windham, Maine
Editor
Melissa Crowe
Associate Editor
Rachel Contreni Flynn
Managing Editor
Mark Crowe
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