No Pink Armadillo
There was no pink armadillo.
No smudge of someone’s fire-cooked sausages in the air.
No escape from thorns cast on each digital divide.
Tears accumulated behind solid surfaces,
climbed the inchoate walls plastered with caution tape,
wires, poles, street signs wearing ripped fabric tied like streamers.
There was only the morning’s dampness,
caught between the out-there and in-here.
No one felt today ending even as it kept on starting.
There was one teaspoon left.
Children ate the others with the rest of the innards.
The one spoon they bent and bent
until the bowl fell away from the shank.
Stem. Handle. Then measured in scoops and pounds.
Tracy May Adair holds a MFA in Poetry from Warren Wilson College in Swannanoa, North Carolina, and a B.S. in Chemical Engineering from Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute. Her poetry recently appeared in Apex Magazine, Fickle Muses, Linden Avenue Literary Journal, Olentangy Review, Sediments Literary-Arts Journal, Shot Glass Journal, and Woven Tale Press. She blogs at www.adair-author.com.