Some nights I’ve seen
a slice of silver creep along the room
I now call home,
across my makeshift bed—a rickety chair
beside the snack machine.
Close by, the elevators whirr and beep.
I cannot, dare not, drift asleep,
let down my guard,
inviting shoulder taps, a whispered Sir,
or dreams of her
once brilliant eyes that stare & stare & stare,
cold, distant, hard.
So I will will her through another day.
Make crazy compromises. Pray.


Catherine Chandler



poppy closeup