Pointing Back
Pointing back
From where I sit,
this crowded street of frowning faces and lying eyes
meander past the mom and pop facades with kids in tow…
tethered by their wants
and constant whining
now glaring at me as if,
I am the problem
I wave them off in my best oceanic gesture,
casting salty aspirations to the ground around my feet…
all the while keeping my fitted
thoughts to myself
For opposite this asphalt divider
of pot holes and swept debris
she sits, twisting her chocolate hair around her finger,
staring at the clock, waiting
Wearing her favorite dress,
glistening crimson nail and lip paint
The violent sun finds my shoulders
scattering grey clouds
between the concrete and neon
folded on the structure facing my perch
A single drop of sweat rolls down my cheek,
on this day more will come
Mixed, blended, hidden or defined
by tears held back, losing the battle
I take in the second story window,
shade slightly drawn and I imagine her
Jumping excitedly at the knock,
a quick mirrored touch up and fanciful bounces,
as smiles lead her to
his rugged features and fat wallet
The engine idles, I can smell the fumes
dancing across my nostrils, sickened
Floating the steps, (they) she looks happy, then at me
her head drops, sad or thankful, probably
Engine revs, my eyes fill
as thunderstorms erupt on my face, (they) she disappears
My heart near death, beating slow
it reels on this day,
while others, in their mindless pandering
and nose followed directions, stare and point
I spit, reaching our heart encased initials
carved in the stained and tiring sidewalk
My chest throbs, legs weak and nonexistent,
transparent of hurt and glass filtered wishes
Pointing back at those who would judge, I shout…
Yes, I am the problem!
Copyright © Chris Green | Year Posted 2017
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