The Show

The Show

The hinges creak closing time and the library door slams shut;
the key—a rusted Peeping Tom—
grinds its metal teeth,
clicks its metal tongue,
exhales disappointment at having to leave so soon;
a puff of dust explodes
from within the lock,
through the keyhole,
and over Luna’s fingers stretched out on the counter,
paging through late returns that whisper.
Windows rattle and the wind wails:
‘The show’s about to begin.’

Decisions

Decisions

And so it goes,
the termite-infested closet doors busted,
hinges rusted,
a shiver and shake
when the truth breaks;
the skeletons come tumbling down,
a skull bounces off the coffee table,
cracks the glass top, stained brown;
a femur shatters last night’s vodka bottle,
and a rib bone, grey,
picks at the butts in the ashtray.

And there you stand
with your head in your hands,
nails chipped and broken,
and the musty smell of your towel
plugs your nostrils as it slips off;
and you ask yourself:
do I pick up the pieces and fix the closet,
or do I go outside and have a garage sale?

words by Ramon Ramirez