Love Song of a Divorce Attorney by Janet Shell Anderson

Old women like wrinkled velociraptors probe surprising streets to shop for baby clothes. I am caught up. High Plains Spring is hesitant outside the big box stores, Super Target, Kohls.

Nebraska fifty-two mile per hour winds slash just and unjust alike while thuggish skies lower over the south side of Lincoln, monster trucks appear from nowhere.

I do divorce.

A filthy man whose sign says he will work for food shouts something. Appropriate thunder cracks.
I am an attorney.

I miss my ex. Maria, haloed in the slanting stormlight, walks transcendent across miles of asphalt, past lines of parked SUVs, surveillance cameras out of reach.

The wind dies. I smell tornado weather.

The green spring peepers in the pond near Walmart sing their thin frog songs each to each. I do not think that they will sing for me.


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