Window Shopping
CL Bledsoe
Pale, white, and ugly
as a newborn bullet
wound before it bleeds, he hides
in the cookie aisle
behind a bag of macaroons.
Something in his eyes
is lapping at the stock girl's face
like a dog at a bowl of water.
She bends to stock a box of crackers.
He stares at the rounded curve
of her jeans, stretched
over scrawny skin, door locked, phone
unplugged just in case anyone calls;
the ring might slap him awake,
jiggly and crying
into the sunset of the world.
Posted over on Writing From Scars
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