by C.J. Sellers
She’s running away to a Nevada bordello.
Knuckles spell out a N-E-U-R O-T-I-C plea.
Hitch a ride with a truck-stop hello.
She’s running away.
Unmasked, there’s not much these ringed cat’s eyes don’t see.
Dark cobalt dreads bunched in a black bow.
Below, orange roots show and tell. This world ain’t free.
Where her breast folds sleeves of a tattooed bolero,
scarred veins snake to a laden tree.
Just needs some fast cash to blow.
She’s running away.