Elegy For a Sandwich Shop
Broken bottles glitter on the swollen concrete before
the door.
His smiling face in fractals of the glass window.
His counter, sun-wrecked and water stained hold his
familiar hands.
The floor is caked in ochre footsteps of those who
came out of the rain before me.
Vaulted ceilings of ashen metal blow artificial air
upon my midsummer neck
The gray veins of each aisle beckon me home
Smells of fresh baked bread permeate the thick, wet
air and come to rest, steadfast, in my nose
Mohammed’s communal voice starts to sing
and static begins to crackle
The store itself drenched in scents of brief understanding
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