She defrosts
her freezer
in the middle
of every third
lunar cycle. Hears
a man
at another table
mention shell game.
All she wants
to find beneath
is a trail in the sand
the original
dweller left
behind. Pretends
she’s just fine
through the other
two cycles
when inside
bearing walls
close in.
Others begin
to sway. Unstabilized
bookcases shake
loose thin books.
Poems appear
to leap
to their demise.
Words scatter.
Some flee
under door
sweeps. Others
slice window screens
to escape. As evening
creeps in sooner, longer
toward the autumnal
equinox, she longs
for the bravado
of no regrets
beneath a thunder moon.
A wonderful play on words, giving an understanding, unique to each individual reader.
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