A Good Home

Photo by Mister B. on Unsplash

She was the last tree in the lot,
leaning against the fence, eyes
averted, a frumpled, torn dress
pooled at the ankles. If she had
a cigarette, she’d be smoking it,

a danger to herself and others,
as soft lights reflect in her welling.
Someone has to be last — a year,
a night, a kiss, in line — it might
as well be this one, seven feet

slanted and regal, ready to stand
in the center, or transform
into millions. People come and go
with fists closed, but it rarely ends
that way. There’s always an embrace

if you know where to look,
one who sees past the cigarette,
into the cold soul, to lead one home
by a broken hand soon decorated
in a thousand beaded stars this night.

© Trapper Markelz 2020

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