MARK

The black text has scorched its’ mark
and my brow folds closed like an ashen
Wednesday that never happened
and I am shunned by neighbors
and carny folk alike. I am left
to languish in moldering seaside resorts,
in penny arcades that have long since
run out of ammunition. I hide my eyes
from all that is not right before me.
To either side, shame builds a highway.