Like a slave encased,
importunately
she longs out the freshly streaked window
begging verity, wanting it palpable
like sandpaper rubbing her sweaty hand.
Waiting past streetlamps burning
through darkness staid like a leather jacket
on a dark boy standing still.
Sidestepping moving and parked cars; people emerge
then drown. She clutches what is plain,
plain as that tree bristling under
her gaze; plain as the gum wrapper
buried half in dirt, tucked beneath the white curb;
plain as the rusty hubcaps pressed hard against
the red car; plain as the wires
crisscrossing the pale blue
sky she settles past
what she can easily touch
and frets
for all she imagines instead.
Lisa Kusel 