the poet, smiling, -i assure, they were never my words. the interviewer wonders, -but you wrote them? the poet, -i found them. at the tip of my pen.
It is the disturbed air warning as the subway shoots past and like a decision between two emotions, fear and excitement, because they both feel the same in my body.
The guy steps in close- litigates and reiterates- ’guess 8 o’clock doesn’t mean what it used to be.’ My watch showed 8:03. And i could see inside the store, employees stacked, cleaned, and chopped. While outside, a small clutch of early risers wonders about when they can shop.