The Innisfree Poetry Journal

by Anne Harding Woodworth

Pay & Display

It’s on the dash—
          the Constable knows how much longer I have,
I saw him pass by, look at what’s left,
          count the minutes, hours, note that I’m in compliance.
I have a known quantity of time, unknown really,
          since I lose track of days, months, years, even though
it is written. And I will stay on the street as long as I can,
          or as long as it’s necessary to get the errands done.
It’s on the dash—
          which stretches wide and vinyl, cushioned for head injury.
It won’t be a crash, though there’s no way of knowing,
          and what I say often turns out to be wrong.

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