Spiraling Sally

In the back of the limousine, I plead.
The small, black button has not yet caved,
and even my tongue
-which was raised on the streets,
cannot buckle this bitch
of a soundproof barrier.

I tried knocking, but the driver
was lost in illegal thoughts; who hasn’t?
So I sat and cracked ice
with my jawbones and stomach moths,
I still haven’t figured out why
I need to go there. An olive tree,

I see it through the lens-cap hue
of my neo-carriage’s window.
A caravan shell from the souls
of the shriveled wallets and paper-frail
egos. But my hunger, as would be
expected, usually dies during dinner.

“Damn,” I bite my lip and ricochet,
feeling the warmth from the gash
in my mouth, soak into my saliva.
Glancing again into the night field, I see
for the second time, nature’s rubble. Scars
swing-dancing in the pale bark

of another clustered olive tree, or is it
the same one? Familiarity calls my name
as I pop another ice cube into my violated
mouth. Despite the pain, I thrash my tongue
violently, and the imprisoned coldness slips
liquid down the tomb of my throat.

As the unfrozen bubble lays waste in my gut,
a daydreaming needle sinks into my ear,
resting my head, I drift. The plastic cup
that had held the ice, slips, breaking its spine
on the floor. I imagine freedom; rubbing thick
soil on my face, and asking the trees how to be a leader.