This beating muscle of mine stretches,
yearns, pounds for whom I do not know...
The smell of her hair wafts from the next room:
the way your eyes crinkle when you’re genuinely happy.
The seconds tick by in the empty space.
The sound of carts rolling across the cafeteria floor.
Murmurs of conversations of food workers emanating
from the kitchen. The overweight—mostly black—
men and women all wear white jackets like
the kind doctors wear. Light permeates and shadows
present themselves around the circular ceiling
structure in the center.
10 AM. The shimmer of sunlight littering the corners of
the room. Cried here, let go, poured soul. For being so
levelheaded to tell me the truth I could not hear at the time.
Because you don’t understand this beating muscle of mine.
1 comment:
:)
Post a Comment