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Wednesday, April 14, 2010

sleeveless,

disheveled.

donning crusty trousers, oily cap.
cracked hands, and water in the morning.
you wish it were juice, but you never drink juice.

because every time you reach to buy it,
you hear her sounds.
her giggle, her jab.
her tease, her demand.

and for split seconds---fleeting tiny meaningless moments---all the wind of the world is rushing from ear to ear. flooding your brain, clogging your throat, bloating your chest, until you run empty-handed from the market. a cart-full left on aisle nine. for the stock-girl to put back.


she does so. swift and precisely. but not without wondering. not without inquisitive fingers. not without a long look at the automatic door closing on a sleeveless shadow.