The girl with the heart of glass
She walked past the man from a land she could only guess at. What were its customs? What language did he grow up hearing? He sang La Bamba, on his bum, filling the station’s mouth with music. Perhaps no one listened.
The pack of teen boys last night, trailing with their alcohol, jokes in their hands and dicks. Tales of public pissing shared out loud as she walked by, as their pal pissed onto a building site.
The old man with no children to pass his life’s findings into. He’s one of the greats; he made it, lost it, made it again, and is now a thoughtful, generous man. Perhaps he always had been.
His wife didn’t understand store-bought frocks.
The pretty girls with holes in their hearts, or too-thick flaps of skin in their hearts, or too-weak ventricles.
The Oxford comma. It’s not funny.
The weakness of personality that allows strands of jealousy to the violence of smashing a stranger’s arm away resisting the viewpoint of a god-shining moviemaker (you) documenting your life
a string of spaghetti stuck on the counter dishwasher dancing overhead on rocks dashing home some brass-rubbed truths cold stars would blink down
the clink of ice temporary burn
The girl with a heart of glass
Glass powder underfoot