Every month – tears.
I’m late again. Hurtling up, tingling,
certain. Then boom,
a stained fall.
Cobalt dye injected,
gelid plastic intrudes. More likely
to win the lottery, doctors say.
I dig deep for the railroad switch,
Rio streets, Chinese orphanages,
all accounts cross-checked, doors and windows
cranked open for scrutiny. Then this,
this clear fuchsia line.