By: Jonathan Butcher
In that narrow underpass the badly fitted
lights struggle and flicker. The tags and stickers
which adorn them cast miniature shadows that
appear against our skin like bruises, that refuse
to heal until covered.
We’re neither approached or ignored by those
passing, who clench plastic bags and leads.
The dogs that pass and sniff uninterested at
the reside left by our dragged heels, the dirt
left behind leaving no scent.
The blanket of cold air slowly deadens our
momentum. That glance we have now perfected,
remains as meaningless as that first day, resurfaces
once more. Again we struggle to seal over those
cracks, that finally shatter our masks.