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by WC Roberts


disclaritiesFrom the eyes of angels clipped from pages
of morgue newspaper
to the pressed-tin ceiling overhead
a Rubicon flows
the snakes of Æsculapius
clots of ink in your hair
the shade gone limp in your hands
heads of cabbage wrapped in butcher’s paper
looking back
on the Greyhound bus parked outside the terminal
in Lexington, Kentucky
where I waited for the driver to return with cream and sugar
for his coffee
my frontal lobes stirred up by the daintiest of spoons


BIO: WC Roberts bought his first television in 2010, after selling his first 100 poems. Where he is he can’t get Mystery Theater or Happy Days reruns on his rabbit ears, so he Rarebit Dreams of riding in the sidecar with motorcycle-tough Miss Marple as she jumps the shark. Desperate for a satellite dish, he applies his imagination to works of poetry and fiction