The leaves have not yet changed.
But in a staticky autumn sweater,
mug of apple cider in hand,
I traipse through campus
to a picnic-table porch
to work on homework due
two days ago.
The aftertaste of “I’ll do better” hangs
like a bat in my mouth, its tendon talons
unyielding against waves of rusty ambrosia
from Walmart. My faults a pestilence
reliable as the seasons, they change
yet persist: the inevitable cycle
of mortality.
Rebekah Cook
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