Precipice

Midday gusts
push my car
from side to side
while driving on an 
expired license,
just above speed
limits; stalling at
lights — fuel filter,
I hope that’s all 
it is. Hope gets me
home to collapse
where I start to think about 
how expensive gas
has become and
how long till my money
comes again;
and yeah, there’s 
nuclear war and 
my long ago relegated
to a far closet
childhood fears
knocking to come
out. Around here,
we call this Monday
or Tuesday or 
any old day of 
nothing definite
but precipice.

About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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