Zebra Crossing
Sweet feminine syrup oozes out.
Soon he returns to the same pale valley.
The locomotive rhythm lulls him to snooze
near the kaleidoscope-window.
He’s been reinstalled on the border,
where the roar of terror never ceases,
like a statue of contradiction
with a rifle in hand
and love in heart.
Reunion is a recurring rapture.
She crosses the highway to pick him up.
What a pity!
A drunk-driver is a silhouette of death.
Lifting the latch of sleep,
he often slips out to the zebra crossing,
where she walks across with a bunch of dreams.
First published in The Literary Hatchet
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