Save Me Before You Reach The Last Line
By Michael Frey

An enormous, cargo container sits in the middle of Times Square (NYC)

and is blocking traffic in all directions

causing horrid vehicle screams.

One end of the steel container is open

and so I secretly peak inside and am amazed

to find that inside the container is a lush forest.

I can make out the forest clearly from 42nd street.

I see fawns playing and owls perched on tree tops,

hoo hoo’ing though it is daylight.

The sun shines from the forest down the container spilling

a few escaping rays onto the cold city street.

The smell of apricot and lemon which perfumes the forest air

wafts and gambols in my city nose.

I hear the howl of one hundred horns honking as

three policemen approach me; two of them grab my

arms and hold me.

The third one pulls out a gun and puts one in my left shoulder.

He tells me I must move the cargo container now.

Right now or he will kill me.

I don’t understand so he puts another in my kneecap.

My blood trickles away fast, with false confidence,

like mucho boys running away from home for the first time.

Tourists are looking at me, snapping digital pics.

I tell them it is not my cargo container.

The cop has razor blades for lips.

He smiles and

raises the gun to my head.

BANG.