where the hell is that breeze coming from?
by Gabriel Ricard
“I’ve been better,” she said.
Four days in this flea market,
and I think the fluorescent lights
were starting to seriously fuck
with my appetite, my dirty skin,
my lucky fingernails, and my ability
but not worship,
But I was still happy to see a friendly face,
and I didn’t want to ask her about the bruises,
the missing eye,
or the fact that she never did pick me up
at the station.
But give me ten years,
and I can let go of most things.
I can wish my father well.
I can show up for that one wedding clean-shaven.
I can love someone, who has every right not to love me back.
“How have you been?”
The other shoppers were Moses strong,
and I could feel my tongue getting hot again.
I looked at her.
I couldn’t remember.
Posted on 08/20/2013
Copyright © 2022 Gabriel Ricard