It’s a quarter to four

the girl in silver shorts
down at the police station
makes a report
about an impossible situation

The tiger, pretending it was tame,
lay down with the lamb
and the lamb rose with a sense of shame

The girl in the silver shorts
worries that her reputation
is nothing more now than inflammation

Her hand shakes, her mind’s still
her stomach reports that it’s never felt so ill
as the police officer is too meticulous
in taking down every last one of her particulars

They’ll put it all down to drinking
or say that the way she’s dressed
smacks of wishful thinking

But even after they draw a pall
over this missing persons call
the girl in the torn silver shorts
at a quarter to four
won’t be that girl after all

not anymore

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