Reverse Polaroid Blues



Reverse Polaroid Blues

Food vendors swallow
and choke on their voices;
the sights,
the sounds
on Platform Nine fade;
skewered meat on the grill
turns raw, blood-red squares
that suck smoke
into wood fires;
the coals hiss
a slow death
inside oil drum coffins.

The skyline rushes,
skips over the tin roof covering;
a healthy orange juice
afternoon after-glow
slurps up dusk’s scars
and violent violet bruises.

He flips over the Polaroid,
fingers her address on the back,
and stuffs it in his shirt pocket.

2 thoughts on “Reverse Polaroid Blues

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