You know me well strolling streets to be with people without
being with people. You ask for one dollar. One dollar.
What if I only have a twenty? Can I owe you for tonight?
Your eyes bloodshot like mine bags holding them up.
Johnson roamed London midnight to sunrise. Couldnít bear
the garret stacked in leaves of words worked reworked
amanuenses oblivious to stale air to his rambling Fleet.
My rambling State slipping in my skin bleak above cement.
Days disintegrate unseen except by you grave lady reaching for me
singing a hymn my mother sang When nothing else would help
love lifted me. Iím not him: I canít take you home. But Iíll leave you
this bill & all the change in my pocket.
Chella Courington is an MFA student at
Dark Sky Magazine, and Studio.
Chella Courington is an MFA student at SUB-LIT, Dark Sky Magazine, and Studio.and a recipient of the scholarship. Her poetry has appeared this year in Prism Review, Touchstone,