Lena Armstrong


She wished for the Seattle rain and cool mist

To fade from her memory.

She fidgeted with the elongated penny,

Distorted by the weight of the Machine.


She glanced down at the coffee table.

She noticed the half eaten sandwich,

The unpaid bills,

And her grandmother’s chipped tea cup.


She longed for Seattle.

The rain danced on windowsills.

The crumpets at the local shop pooled with butter.

The Space Needle loomed in the distance.


But she remembered why she left.

She relived the phone call,

The train ride home,

And the copper penny’s green stain on her palm.


It was not loss,

but the stench of failure

that plagued Seattle.

The first of many times she gave up.