She slides behind the counter
Tall blue-eyed wonderment
Complete with blue company apron
Fitting in, can I help you?
Soft flaxen hair, grown thin
Small talk breaks through the service
In friendly courteous gestures
Yet, when not at work
Wait… did you see her?
Isn’t that Bridgett from the bakery?
Tall black heels
Dark sleek, shiny pants
Stepping out
She’s headed out to see him
Or who, or what, we don’t know
She won’t be serving pastry tonight,
or will she?
i stare at these white pages
devestated
shattered because
i can’t muster up the courage
just to write
so tired
mind so empty
yet busy at the same time
too distorted to make rhymes
too tortured to get out of bed
both from my mental and physical
stunted on both fronts
yet i yearn to spread ink
across this white abyss
so here i lay
writing about what plagues me
to push me forward onto the next
Somone asked me if you were angry
I lied
saving face
trying to hide what yours couldn’t
the weak smile
the dark eyes
When we take pictures
you sigh
Am I really an inconvenience
is my presence such an annoyance
I swallow my sadness as you roll your eyes
neither of us smile
yet I still post it
O giant moth, where did you go?
Once brought into this bare abode
You flew away onto the wall
And there, two days, did idly stall.
All movement in those days elapsed
Was just your wings once open, clasped.
And then one hour we looked to you
To see you disappeared from view.
Did you fall far to your demise
Or fly free back to the outside?
I guess we’ll never get to know
Where you, o giant moth, did go.
There is a cavalcade of words
lined up behind the ivory sluice gate
patiently waiting to be spoken.
I’m comfortable resting
in the silence, though.
So we sit in the theater
nestled in the soft satin curtains
patiently awaiting the show.
Apprehension thick and choking
like smoke on the casino floor.
The lead actors are not known
for their prompt arrival.
Instead, renowned for the
way they weave words wantonly
debating, betraying, sharpening
accusations against
the whetstone of thoughtful supposition.
The audience watches in rapt attention
preparing rebuttals
footnotes cover the playbill margins.
This play is not a comedy of errors
but a contest of wills.
There are no winners.
Yet, every night, they return rejuvenated
freshly minted pitchforks at the ready
aiming the spotlights
at new loopholes.
the dude that owns the card shop
Poor little doll, strung up
With no place to go, to be.
Hiding in these walls
Cloaked in darkness
No sunlight, for eternity.
His sun, his son—
Come remember
Make haste.
See the truth
The waste
All that is displaced,
The years, always yours.
He who finds this note
Shall note only misery
For this is lost history.
