Pink Rabbits

Ah, look at me,

fool in his seat, his warmth.

The headlights glare at nothing

and the crisp December air

curls upward and over the windows,

steaming me in.

A shopping cart rolls on past,

and hundreds of bright golden eyes

sing by

in streaks of color, streaks of light.

Ah, look at me now,

Hanna.

Look how my hands

rest here on my legs, look

at my fingernail beds,

short, jagged and raw.

Look at me

burning in pride,

withering in shame.

Our silence is a deafening one,

and I wonder

do you listen

as I mouth the words

you know by

heart, by

hand?

Ah, look at me,

fool in the night,

alone.

Isn’t it

lovely;

aren’t I

grand.

11/29/2014

North Vancouver

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Endless Writer © Ata Zargarof 2020

atazargarof@gmail.com

BC, Canada