my coffee is growing cold,
but i can't help but stare, at
a-void in the corner, where well trod
varnished wood floor just stops
a man walks through the glass door,
bell tolling his entrance, in red running shorts
and white/black top, sweating &
smiling he stands in line, though his cheek
is missing and there is a gaping hole in his back.
the woman two tables over talks with her fingers,
no one sits with her, a phone in her ear &
while she waves them, only her pinky
and index are there. another void sits
just off center her chest.
behind the counter, a glass faced cooler displaying
pastries and sweet rolls, a college kid takes orders,
his left eye, a hole as is the hollow of his hip.
a mom soothes a baby, who is missing half a foot,
and she a lip. their chair has a gap in one leg,
but sits solid, or at least seems &
somewhere, on the second shelf of a bedroom
closet there is a box containing all these missing pieces,
unfit even for sale, held by people who
don't know what it is they hold.
they find them like easter eggs, in odd places.
tall grass, gutter drain pipes, under a desk.
there is a small pile by the water cooler.
placed in their pockets they carry
them all day then empty them into bowls
with change, receipts and other things.
pieces that don't fit their own emptiness,
they leave to sit.
i see them, and know you do, the holes,
they are there if you look out the corner
of your vision, but pretend we dont. as it
wouldn't be polite, might get messy,
or become our responsibility, so
we sip our coffee, talk on the phone, sooth
the baby with promises that one day, maybe,
they will find theirs in a cereal box or cracker jacks
and at night, trace the edges of our own, alone,
mapping their geography, because there are certain things
you don't do in the light of day,
checking my watch, the hands have moved,
it's time to go.
It is One Shot Wednesday, one big poetic party, where we drink metaphor and word play until we can not walk...so go go write something poetic and come join us, it's BYOP and show up at 5 pm EST.