I am a tin pen
so you ask when?

      I write on the floor
kissing the spot

where dancers writhed
  in a style I cannot recommend.

     Bodies bent like thin trees
in a hurricane. A reporter standing

in the midst of ominous gray
      waiting for the signal to speak

  so she can get out soon,
roads slickened with saliva.

(originally published in The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Fall 2018)