For someone who insisted she would

Not do anything she couldn’t admit to

 

midnight copper cockroach

crouched on asphalt pavement, inner

city face concave – erratic dark vermin

in the alleyway oblivion –

across an empty lot, strewn with rubble and tattooed

(the shadow-net cast by the meshed wire fence)

she scurries, feet scraping

alert: rapacious watcher

metallic and uncaring

 

She does know (or course)

It’s a dreadful thing to do