1 1 / 1 2 / 1 4
the topaz of the sunset clings to the windowpanes like paint chips
the amber evening spills onto the faded tiles
the couple that sits in the 5 o’clock shadow of the corner table
doesn’t move an inch, like marble statues for decoration,
though the strands of their hair flutter
like stray eyelashes,
like planets in orbit,
like spinning globes.
their hands are curled tightly around one another like calligraphy
the fish and chips smell of newspaper headlines, flour and salt
you think you can hear the ocean in your ear
but it is really the ringtone in your pocket sandpapering the
clockwork gear of your mind about your four-forty-five meeting
you shuffle black and white and green bills like poker cards
in your hand
you shuffle your way out of the store with chips in your hand
and time on your wrist like an ornament
