by Petra Chambers David Boca This feeling will not conform to any size or shape of slot, no matter how firmly I press, breathing cautiously until I hear the click that says it’s locked away. Loneliness is to be hurried away from, left holding its broken umbrella, long after the last bus carries the residue of multitudes, delivered, sorted, snapped up tight in stacks of boxes, neatly stowed in rows of rooms on dear & tidy squares of streets. It resists my efforts at containmen