Four is greater than pi

by Lynne Hayes

numbers always elude me
yet I think I have it now.
there are three hundred
puke green cinder blocks
in this place where death and life collide,
four windows with bars
to keep what, spirits in or out?
a radar blip
every two seconds to confirm
air is still given
and taken
one bed so shiny
it’s glare hurts my eyes
one three by six device in my palm
holding four words
that broke me in two
but pulse rates over a hundred
do not kill
so
I counted two hundred three steps
to the car that took three left turns,
passed four green lights
a lone police car watching
to arrive at one house
where the message
repeats like that awful remainder
in algebra,

Have a great life.

counting has stopped.

Doing it Jack Allen Style

by Lynne Hayes

With the grip of a possessed lover,
you took my hand
leading me backwards
to the alley where we met,
broke each other.
Amid the concrete, empty soda cans
and trashy love songs from sleepy alley men,
we burned each other
with love that left our signatures
on the walls, graffiti-style,

Yet,
as the band played on and
your breath grew strong,
you never heard my nails break,
or saw my fingers bleed onto mortar
as I made a crack,
big enough to hook my life into.