City/Friday
The glass is scattered, shattered, on the road, being crunched and tossed glistening by the stream of cars passing. An accident slowly erased. Every day comes the sun through the small window in the corner of my room differently, as the universe unwinds. In the night when I wake up I hear the cars, and remember that my father used to be able to find the make and model in those sounds, and so I am deaf. The woman in the shop was reading a paperback horror and had a cheap dark glance to match. The clothes were overpriced and I thought instead of the anygirl who hangs around waiting for something to happen, wanting to say something, but never, reminding me of everything. Like she isn’t even there. That film of sadness seems to run across my eyes like sleep, waking up and wishing you didn’t, deferring, and looking into the eyes of a child being wheeled down the street, knowing then that we don’t know anything, about anything. Glances like small empty notes are passed between strangers as we all walk down the street clutching, while in brackets around it all is the fact there is a war—All of this we try to forget as with vague nausea we lie down in our beds like question marks.