Dead End

With a hand clamped over my mouth
and moist breath on my neck
the future dragged me into the ally
where it was dark
where trash cans held the past
seeping out olfactory accusations.
The breath shunted its way out of my mouth
as decision slammed me against the wall
stole my dreams from out of my bag
and yanked the possessions of possibility off my wrists.

I staggered from the dark
shell-shocked, Stockholmed, still,
and saw unfamiliar faces,
places of unrecognition before me.
Self-consciously, social-consciously
patting a hand over muzzed up hair,
I retreated into that alley,
glancing briefly at the sign nailed to the wall
understanding now that this was where I would, of course, be.


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