I. Wrinkly woman with librarian glasses
bops back and forth to the beat
played on
two
earbuds.
Her violet hair dances
in coils.
II. And his brown coils twirl.
42nd Street approaching,
the bachelor stands,
closes his copy of Clockwork Orange.
Amber irises
glaze over
the occupied seats,
glaze over
the interactions they could make.
As per usual,
no one hears his silent cries. He
abandons the train, looks over his shoulder
into the window
as the vehicle abandons him, too.
III. Hardhat? Check.
Orange vest? Check.
Heavy boots? Check.
Everything a construction worker ought to have
save for a wife, kids, and middle age.
Despite this,
he is calm,
he is clean,
he is looking for her,
someone to complete the life he's built.
He has the foundation,
now all he needs is embellishment.
YOU ARE READING
DEAD
PoetryA young woman passes away unexpectedly, but she isn't entirely gone. Inside a hidden shoebox, she has left countless notes. Some for her friends, some for her family, some for her lover, and some for those she never got the pleasure of meeting. Th...
