she mounted the octagonal table thinking

something careful of councilors concerned

they’d intimate things she’s a fort builder a

bmx enthusiast always arriving a day late

torn from the old clock like a battery

she’d prefer anonymous emails

to the polished oak about the toes

people don’t think about that she

thinks in this instant (a rabble

rouser raised by inefficiency she

corrects her bra & smells tobacco

on the wind, parts her narrative

like it’s possible with a pencil, the

ex-lover killed at an old train

crossing a momentary time persisting

as if an unused postbox she dismounts

not planning to use the ideas she’s seen

for later, eating from a tin