Alyssa Trivett writes

Fifth Strike

I didn't keep track.

It kept track of itself.

Around the go-kart track of

outbursts and missed 

turn signal clicks.

I may have never wanted this,

yet I signed my own permission slip.

And remembered in the end

to let the doubts of the situation

float and head into a pile of rubble

in some unnamed part of the world

no one will have to worry about

or record on an unwinded 

cassette tape left in a pool 

of ice cream in a parking lot.

Let it whirl.

I take my name off your list

and begin

to circle your deceptive words

in a crossword puzzle

though most of them are left

until after the fact.

As a matter of fact.

you can do that for yourself,

from now on, friend.

 

You Will Never Get Me -- Guido Crepax