The Halfway Glass

A city block vendor chimes pleasantries prouder than Muzak or an unseen crow in the background elevating alarm clock music in the caws uncredited and angrily growing louder. A walkway narrows between the vendor and a building. I teeter between both as I pass by her grill parked beside the vape shop. A blistering warmth whitens piled pink hotdogs and tickles my ribcage. A parakeet on her shoulder is flaking off the sun and feathering the moon. Steamy sundowns moisten her saucer eyes. One dog pops sausage through its skin. She fans the minty menthol. I pay the price for squinting. I've dropped my glasses. Splitting off-key shattered glass, the containment of what used to be bits of me shows up digits-bloodied. Long after the initial sweep up, little jagged cuts still happen.