inklings

Night, she walks

down East Avenue
away from the coughing bus which dropped her (a few meters off-target, she sighs)
she hears the bats up in the eaves of one building (there hearts are split and stitched up again)

there are no stars but the asphalt twinkles beneath her white heels
cabs roll by slowly, hoping she’ll look, but she walks on

(click-clack)

the shops are asleep. Ronald McDonald stands frozen, grinning at a cluster of nurses sipping milkshakes.
ahead, an old woman in a brown skirt hobbles, her lone
braid of silver swaying

swaying

that, too, she passes.
an alarm goes off in the distance and nobody turns it off or maybe nobody hears (but I, she thinks)

(click-clack-clickety)
the gates and lock are cold

no one is home (but I).