Terminal City by Mary Franklin

I know I’m not supposed to be here

but where am I supposed to be?

he shouts.

 

Strobe lights flash.  Black-clad

robots of the Vancouver police,

their motto, Beyond the Call,

surround the young man.

 

I know I’m not supposed to be here

but where am I supposed to be?

he shouts.

 

Three in the morning –

the nadir of the soul.

Then darkness,

stillness, silence.

 

And the ears that didn’t listen

and the eyes that didn’t see

go back to sleep.

 

 

Mary Franklin has had poems published in various journals including Ink Sweat and Tears, Iota, London Grip, Message in a Bottle, The Open Mouse, The Stare’s Nest and Three Drops from a Cauldron, as well as several anthologies, most recently by Three Drops Press.  She lives in Vancouver, British Columbia.

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