Spilling over like remnants
ready for the dump, the car
piled pieces of a life.
Jeans splayed and stained
from the last time,
he counted twenties
crisp and ready for a hand.
There were tipster streetlights
and singing eyes, around
the corner, rotting teeth and a scythe.
His breath froze as laughter lifted the lid.
Blood dripped from the tip,
crack from the lip, and melted the
frost in a rummage.
With uncharacteristic manner,
the terror ended with a gentle push.
Leaving the rattle and scream
to shamble shakily towards traffic.
Elizabeth York Dickinson received her MFA in Writing from Sarah Lawrence College. She has work published or forthcoming in Eunoia Review, Drunk Monkeys, Picaroon Poetry and Riggwelter among others. She currently resides in Evanston, Illinois.
Lonesome October Lit 