Not that Kind of Screed

Again, she quickens
her pace so those footsteps
don’t overtake her. A rhythm

so familiar. Turning
a corner doesn’t shake them.
She dashes across the intersection

sporting a strip
club posing as a cabaret
and a parking ramp—still

she can hear them. Ten
more blocks, she can’t take
another moment. It’s the kiss of road

death, but she looks over
her shoulder anyway. Nothing

but the echo
of her own feet. Not even
her shadow this time.