Last night I spent hours watching people jump from burning buildings. Winter left me thinking about plane crashes, explosions, the number of days we’ve gone without an incident in the workplace, fingers that don’t bend the way they’re supposed to, legs that are a bit too short for even tiny bodies and can’t be made …
I fold myself into invisible spaces. Like a cat, my tail forgotten. The man next to me is foam packed, bloated with winter. A crooked old man hand escapes his sleeve and pulls me from my hiding space. He points: “I want to murder those birds.” Other men who are never not drunk barely hold …
Paw firmly pressed against glass window, hanging on with the force of his fingerprints. Wishing the glass fuller, the rain less cold and furious, his scarf less tight around his ears and the woman next to him some other someone with more interesting ideas and a shorter shopping list and a clothing style that solicited …
ghost of some other’s fortune.
the recording of a fallen star.
captured reflection reflected (neglected) ripple trick till the stomach’s sick. sliding high from the other side a self (not quite the self), lady in red (covered head), clucking from beneath her covering:
don’t go away stranger. stay a little longer, I’ve a daisy, another daisy twisted to crown and twirled tight around and begging beats for five-petal song. what are you doing with all this waiting, this tail-chasing, this mask-making? isn’t there some something-or-other called to uncover (discover), isn’t the sum some something-or-other, and you the only one with any math?