The Glazier and the Barber

Photo Credit: Simply Mad Photography. cc-by-nc-sa.

It’s said the middle’s most difficult
for learners, readers, chefs, and those in stride,

for those who sit at the Café de Flore reading Nausea over a plate of escargot,
the butter and garlic seeping into dirty uncut fingernails to be sniffed in remembrance.

“A toast!” she declares; as the lights flicker
we vulgar take up clods of the stinky stuff about,

toss and pitch our shame as if entrails to disregard,
’til the light, transparent, finds a bend between the night

with chromatic shadows stirring an ancient sprite
<insert neurotic disclaimer about not being worthy>

“But you’ve captured something for sure —”
A somewhat sticky moisture that expands the fabric

Was left by a one-eyed spy on a pillow case
that began smoldering with decay

leaving memories as fodder.
“For the fallow times to come,

I have only one thing to say:
be gone forever more

but leave the wind —
we’ve got rain to make,

a cake to decorate in sweet green icing.”
Like a striped pair of pants

the swaths of red blood and white gauze
reveal the time between and — expire.