Last Picture Show


Today the sky is an unsent letter,
blank as my mind on hiatus
from the month’s train, endlessly
clacking over incantations of days.
And yes, you really can feel weather
about to happen.  Above us
a storm thrashes in its net
until snow sifts down, melting
on contact with distraction—
doors opening and slamming
shut, lyrics left out overnight,
the static of conversations
flickering in and out of range.
Substitute: canned laughter,
the house’s beating heart.

If I get up from this moment
and pull back the curtain of our daily
prose, will the moon still be its wallflower
self, alone in its corner of sky,
shining a pale and vicarious lunacy?
Will you hold out your hand
and dance me across the linoleum darkness
under strobe-light stars and spinning night?
If you see this, text smoke signals
for the next showing at infinity’s drive-in,
trace impractical equations
onto the fogged windows of possibility. 



[BIO]: Lori is a mentor for the Afghan Women’s Writing Project and teaches part-time at Quinsigamond Community College.

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