Parliament butts
in Styrofoam cups
with a
lipstick stained
rim.

Stale aromas of
cold dregs
from
automatic brew
black two sugars
blending with
Jean Naté, Jergen’s,
smeared on legs.

The nightly echoes
bouncing off
wood paneled walls.
Formica, chrome,
orange and green
décor
of the cave
we couldn’t hide in,
our motel home.

No safety from
the Neanderthals
and Troglodytes
who only saw
we were not
of their tribe.
Asphalt races,
out of breath
steeplechases,
just to stay alive,

or, so it
felt.

These memories,
enduring,
supplanting
those in remission,
released,
that released me,
from my manumission,
long before I was
exhausted
from making excuses
for where you were
not.

M. Zane McClellan

Copyright © 2015
All rights reserved

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