I dash into the street to view
Jennifer’s collapse under the weight
of a streetlight circle, pink slip despair
and seven shots of an off brand tequila.
The gutter fills with her tears
that spill out of her cradled hands
as she belly-holds her boss’ intolerance
that kneecapped her long stride.
I tug her limp arm.
I scream, “Get out of the fucking road!”
I spot her flay her arms
to expose her raw dread.
The windblown litter accompanies her.
A shopping cart whispers her first name.
A passing car tosses expletives and small stones
while avoiding a collision with the magnitude of her foreboding.
Her unruly friends help me carry her to the curb
between two old beaters with protest bumper stickers.
The six of us blurt crowd sourced survival plans.
Six is not a very large crowd.
We lift her to her feet, brush her off, guide her home
and, in a measure of tortured solidarity,
stay the night in her tiny apartment,
so she will not wake to face tomorrow alone.
copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney