I prefer to wander,
not stay confined
when science says
it’s OK to venture.
But then I stumble
finding a man, half-dead,
ensconced in a rusted truck,
his fingers curled, necrotic,
his face contorted from coughs.
I stand, peering,
deaf to the honks and curses
of those who fight
for his parking space.
He’s still.
His doors are locked.
Far away, a red-blue light shines,
a promise of help
from the other side.
Published in Open Arts Forum on .
Ann Kammerer lives near Chicago, and is from Michigan. Her short fiction and narrative poetry appear in several publications and anthologies, and her collections of narrative poetry include Beaut (Kelsay Books 2024), Friends Once There (Impspired 2024), and four from Bottlecap Press: Yesterday's Playlist (2023), Someone Else (2024), At the Cleaners (2025), and Stump (2025). She is a recent Best of the Net nominee. Visit https://annkammerer.com
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