Dear Perpetrator

Take a sunny afternoon. Take a sedan car.
A family of four driving through
unfamiliar woods...
'Getting there is half the fun,' says Father.
Mother smiles a wan resignation.
A hand flinches like a crab at another alabaster.
Two teenagers sulk like teenagers should.
Wind in its ludic, mellifluous register.
Birds trill their singsong responsibilities.
Every strand, undone, in its airborne place
Then some game

dash in front -

Secret getaways have to wait for now.
As with eventually, they vanish,
except these:

Skid marks over tarmac.
Oil trails beyond point of attention.
Into rusticity, a kind of folklore. Lilywhite
expressions etched into eternity...

then niche.

Itch stays right there, like a table toppled.
Friday, September 23, 2016
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