A Poetry Sporadical of Repeating Forms
You walk. The floor beneath your feet
magnifies each groan and creak
yet fails to drown the droning in
your head. How often did you win?
Or better still, accept defeat?
It’s memory, it’s indiscreet.
It’s best avoided, incomplete.
It’s left-behind abandoned sin
you walk the floor
remembering. Your heart grows weak—
recalling deaths you failed to cheat.
Replay the sirens and the din
and feel the sweat against your skin.
No longer do you work the street.
You walk the floor.
Laura Heidy-Halberstein had poetry published in Verse Daily, Raintown Review, Pebble Lake Review, and other magazines and anthologies. She is a housewife, mother and reclusive cat lover.