Fangs

Down the rabbit path— there’s no method to the madness.

It’s too late in the day to look back.

Drops of ink across thin pages and there’s still an itch to scratch.

I’ve got no quick trigger finger— there’s a slump to the seat at the red light. Finding nothing outside the grease smeared lens.

No intention beyond baring your fangs.

Rolled tobacco and watched the smoke flow over my fingers and into the air.

Lifted hands and a pauper’s purse of answers.

Infinite questions as the spilt milk sky glittered overhead.