Janet I. Buck
Strips of Lace
Clinging frost in
strips of lace
along the road.
Penciled pearls
in doily shapes.
It didn’t seem
that dangerous
until we spun.
Jugglers of smug
hyperbole,
too sure of our
significance.Heart pound swells,
a cantaloupe
in closing throat.
Body creme in
coffee dirt,
blending with
potential death.
Our breaths
just foggy
window time
Black ice beneath
slick satin pumps.