I’m squinting because I’m trying to extract something of worth.
From the kite flirting with a sea lathered with creases,
How it glints off the stairwell but borrows on the cheek,
Footfall of orbiters in running shoes, the ones that croon hellos,
The collapsed jigsaw stomped into artisanal cobblestone,
Shadows and the hot fuss made by the debonair curtain,
As I bury myself, filing through a cul-de-sac.
I’m squinting, but for a moment, I can’t pardon the dark corners,
seeping in as the puddle on the table you keep dipping your elbow into,
the stiff coffee that trips down my throat, it was meant for savoring,
feather of a story that sways, always picked up before it lands,
shoddy corners of a smile, reminder that all that goes down must come back up,
tempered air, sitting with a garden-variety tune long since filtered out.
I can’t sell a thing like that,
I let them hang, then
pretend to forget them on the rail.
Call me a stickler for my time.
Artwork by Bryce Wong