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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.
Copyright ©
Barthwell Farmer
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