Licton Springs Review

EchoBy Elizabeth Evans

He’s been walking for days
from a cheap hotel room, a
cheap woman before this, a
cheap needle before her, a
cheap beer before that, a
cheap Life before him.
He can’t recall what triggered his trip
in a dark musty bar with no windows
no natural light—just the buzz,
the buzz of cheap lights humming
with guitar strings of amateursŐ night.
The microphone squeals like his bones ache—
sporadic, but always at the beginning and end of a song,
the sting of breaking skin, as his stained needle
stabs his stretched skin,
the cold company of the topless dancer.
He rolls over to an empty wallet—
his coffee-colored Corolla gone, and
he’s been walking for days.