It's eight, I'm Late
For a very important date
My fear won't dissipate
They are at the starting gate
The engines are all revving
On the track with the figure eight
something is holding me back
Like quicksand, sinking feeling I hate
I have to make a wager
I must bet on car number eight
I have the syndicates money
And here I sit and wait
In traffic on Eighth Street
Frantically dialing, answer my call
but it won't change my fate
I'm behind the old eight ball
Can't escape
Missed my date
Shot on Eighth street
Caliber, forty eight.


Comments: 49
Mimi
Your poem is Featured in the Triple Name Club.
(marvelous)
Wow.
Great story and rhythm to this drabble!
~Rose
Great poem, Elsie.
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