BY BRENNA SMITH
Copyright is held by the author.
And the light is falling, failing,
All through the rosen, gilded tops
— Smattering on the ground amongst
Litter, leaves and big city dreams.
5 o’clock. Crisp and cold. Sharp
In the air, commuters’ feet wearing
The street bare.
Eyes all glossy in marble stares, till,
Till your brown met my blue, the two,
Most unoriginal, in their hue.
My world suddenly narrowing and
You can be described as nothing
But harrowing you
Cocking your smile sending me
Stumbling and tumbling all the while
I’m standing (perfectly)
The moment endless as it is
Finite; a freeze frame
Of paralytic indecision, so
Equally quintessential, as it is
Cliché. My tongue gorged on words
Sticky and slow like molasses —
5:15. Sudden. Slow.
Rumble, grumble as
Street car 28 arrives.
Opportunities close with doors