FRANCINE WITTE

PANIC

is two men runnin’, scissor legs

cuttin’ up the streets, and the guy

they killed, back there in the house,

his body empty as a coat.

Night like this has a sweat

all it’s own, fever pitch

cat yowl – neon flash

is where they end up,

truck stop by the side

of the road.  Waitress

has a smile open

as a throat gash,

a come-on pourin’ out like blood.

Short guy’s a loser

women been pickin’ him clean

forever, startin’ with his mom.

Tall one’s had it better.

Brando-cool, he knows which wave

to ride, and this ain’t it.

Jealous?  You jealous?  the short

one says, snorts and spits

like a pig, makes a sound

so loud they can’t hear

as escapes zips

up tight behind them

and splits.

Come on, he says,

this won’t take long

and look, he winks

Tequila-quick, ain’t

like her body’s gonna float.

Francine Witte is a poet, playwright and fiction writer.  Her poems have appeared in Nebraska Review, Green Mountains Review and elsewhere.  She has been nominated twice for a Pushcart prize in poetry and once for fiction.  Her chapbook "The Magic in the Streets" was published by Owl Creek Press.  She is a high school English teacher and lives in Manhattan.