The Patron Saint of One-Way Trips 1am. An empty playground. Empty, save for the creaking swing Pushed by creaking knees And a shaky peace. The stars are faint and few, And four paws fall in front Of two cut bare feet. The patron saint of one-way trips Stares with glossy eyes From the far side of the field. A warning. Take one step past her, And you won’t be coming back. The patron saint of one-way trips Dips her head in greeting. I step off the swing, And wood chips dig into my skin. “Not yet,” I say, and she disappears into the night As I return to my open window. And the stars stare With glossy eyes from the far side of the sky.
