i.
script writers spit
sour words late into
the night, pressing
amplified aromas into
street gutters
she sips rejection
in silence and chokes
down her dying dreams
ii.
sharp-edged tickets swirl,
slide beneath red carpets
rolled like stylized pages
on an art board
she scrambles for
silver trinkets
iii.
hope cannot live
long enough for
the gentle winds
of prosperity
time becomes bound
by yesterday's vision to
feed an empty stomach
iv.
bright lights
find thin hands
scraping alley trash
where eyes wear red
better than the
lead character
she fingers a
yellowed playbill
and smiles at the sky
Pamela A. Lamppa
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