80/L17 – Ransom


Christ the man offers
to pick up the check,
quick-draw to his hip,
but she declines. As always
he lets her. She worries
up a flock of crows
to nest in her hair.
He draws idly on a napkin.
Their smiles always overlapped.
He speaks in uncertain terms
of things to come,
his finger finding the edge
of the cup. Her eyes trace
uncertain grain splitting
the table between them,
seeking to find where
she might dig it up,
this root of contention.
Her earrings scatter sun
spilling treasure as ransom
but she knows as well as he
there is nothing other to be done.
There never was.

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