» Poetry
Vanity
Hairpins on the vanity—
I’ve lost count.
Fellow suburbanites,
the pedestrians outpace the growing
traffic, hair hovers above cul-de-sacs
like tentacles. Go out,
get stung. Letting the touching
do its work, I venture into
wires. I feel like a lover.
I feel sorry that sex
rarely happens in public.
Not that I’d be looking for it,
only stumble upon a couple
of fellow loners trying
to prove to their neighbors
they aren’t lonely.
No other way to convince
the jury, unless
a man grabs a gun
to blast billions of bullets,
and satisfies himself
that he can live without
Homo sapiens.
Nearby, imperious crows line up
on power lines. Momentary silence
before their firing squad of gazes—
spare me—I’ll return home—
the hair—accidental curios