Post-Wednesday

A store dedicated to

Distributing filth rags

That I wear like a uniform.

The threshold breached I

Am stormed by a face familiar

And forgotten, from halls ill-lit

And a grouping of years

Stomped deeper than a subway line.

The she, the she, before I

Plucked my eyes out and reverted

To realize I want the fingers of a man

The voice of a man.

I smiled and I lied because I can.

Fiction is my proxy when penned

In the arena of an honest grin.

Even I believed the thick-knit lyric

Launched from my catapult

Until I returned to my cell.

I embraced her while lying, baring

Teeth that must have been

Convincing. She was happy

For me. I was happy for no one

Underneath the teal fur an hour

Later.

-BENJAMIN SMITH