The Mirror
1 Minute Read Time
Dead leaves, sidewalk, black dog—empty, sunlit
March street with pines, oil stains, someone
walking purposefully in the direction opposite yours
on the other shore of the four-lane’s current
in a full suit of armor: plumed, visored helmet,
heavy gauntlets, floating burgundy cape.
When you raise your empty hand in greeting,
his answer rattles melancholy’s padlock
loose, a jackpot’s din jangling the afternoon,
one silver arm bending slowly, an android’s wave:
someone, oil stains, pines on March street:
sunlit, empty—black dog, sidewalk, dead leaves.
Read more from Issue 18.1.
