Anne Fisher



Twilight Battle


Swollen clouds shed tears

like a soldier’s widow

upon a corporate brigade uniformed

in soggy trench coats and dull calfskin loafers.


Advancing across the weathered platform,

away from their rail-riding steel cages,

they are oblivious to all but their shared

objective of seizing time and demanding surrender.


With second sight they measure

each abrupt step and fleeting second,

terrified that too much of life is spent in limbo

chasing connections between worlds.


A sudden cry sounds from the front lines

as a man falls victim to ice and gravity,

a fallen soldier amidst the troops

searching an anonymous expanse for rescue.


Pallid gut swelling over sagging khakis,

legs entwined like ancient vines,

he is confronted by blue, brown, green eyes

betraying shock, fear, annoyance, guilt.


One by one they resume the procession,

stepping over this comrade like a fleshy puddle. 

On this mission, minutes are valued

more than compassion.


All battles have casualties

and rush hour is no exception.  




Anne Fisher


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