reflections of me

reglections

reflec­tions © bd

 

I look across the park­ing lot and what do I see?
Smoked glass win­dows with reflec­tions of me.

Shop­pers shuf­fle silently under clouds of glum;
I’m out­side look­ing into my brown bag of rum.

Neon attacks gloam­ing as day­light starts to leave,
Bag boy thinks shenani­gans on this hot summer’s eve.

First the House-of-Hong sign sput­ters itself alight;
Then all the other glare starts to rail against the night.

At this first broach by evening my mem­o­ries turn to ghosts
Who feared the Inqui­si­tion and its Spanish-speaking hosts.

I talk out loud about them, but it’s mostly up my sleeve,
I can’t seem to make them say what it is that they believe.

    My head sits on its pen­cil neck, my frame is nice and lean,
    I tote my loot in plas­tic bags across the van­ished green.

 

One thought on “reflections of me

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