He doubts shadows—his own, yours—Hers, of course,
thrown under the last light on this slow street.
Still, he’ll follow, or walk slowly, while your
eyes scan sidewalks, listen for her feet
and his. She thinks she still smokes, loots her purse
for long lost lighters. His small, sharp retreat
casts doubt on your shadows, her changing course,
curving but fast. A light car growls the street
ahead. You watch her turn while he stops short
under a circle of fading light. Streets
go black to gray. Sharp angles fail to meet
your eyes. He won’t look at your report.
He’ll doubt your shadow. And her heart, of course.
PRICE OF ADMISSION
He seeks maps of missing letters. He knows
they’re inside clocks in long-closed theaters,
dusty as black and white movies. They are
ignored guardians, so lost runes stay safe.
Unmoving hands stopped when the final show
ended. Silver light got swallowed by drapes.
The box office is empty. One red stub
pokes from the ticket slot. If he could reach
through glass, he might enter. Across sun-bleached
carpet—he knew where they hid the key. Stale
popcorn protects it. Then he’d softly rub
the timepiece. Letters would come out of jail.
Mark J. Mitchell’s most recent collection is Something to Be from Pski’s Porch. A historical novel will be out soon. He’s fond of baseball, Miles Davis and Dante. He lives in San Francisco with his wife, the activist, Joan Juster where he makes his living pointing out pretty things. Check out https://www.facebook.com/MarkJMitchellwriter/
https://www.mark-j-mitchell.square.site/ He sometimes tweets @Mark J Mitchell_Writer
EDITOR'S SONG PAIRING:
Silver Screen Life by Unlike Pluto