Written by: Soulfire

November-a-drizzle on that west coast grey
not far from the billowing factory plumes
where weary men and temp-clerk ‘girls’ 
punched the clock to buy more time
in the Dewdney Trunk trailer court

Holed up against that wintery veil of certain loss
they buried their growing vulnerability 
beneath the slow rise of abandon, trembling 
on bated breath and beaded sweat and 
sweet scattered lies, that 

Perennial harvest rooted-deep in whispers 
what if? what if? if only?
they’d planted truths in that hard ground
like we mattered—
any cost less than this
stark expanse of springless regret