by Chila Woychik
She’s a sixty year old trying to draw on a rollercoaster.
She’s a clock in the road, chicken soup with lemon juice.
What used to be her friend is now an enemy—
right or wrong—in the gray areas.
A garbage bag at terminal end
and old-age angst tentacles close
haunts her right up to the yellow chalk
outline of the sun on the sidewalk.
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