A Relapsed Lament

Poetry

C.T. Lark

So there I was, sixty-five miles on the

parkway cut short by a sudden yellow-brown

blur (maybe suicidal, more inclined to seek

enlightenment). And trust me, you don’t

even know the best part. There on the

passenger’s seat, one chestnut-brown

antler snapped in two, carefully placed

atop thick glass shards. Not many get more

than an insurance claim, dents, unsalvageable

parts, pithy points on a card that don’t matter.

You took mine away. Call it bragging rights,

insolence, the-worst-takeaway-i’ve-ever-seen

(judgy much?), maybe materialistic if there’s

time (too late). C’mon now. These might be

your last words before I crack open another.