Bellboy
Susan
and her unremarkable friend—visitors from there, here. Ambitious adventurers in
the form of light lock hair and paper cup, plastic lid. Listless wanderers
collecting silver leaves, collecting unopened maps and chamomile teas. They
curve in the wind like crescent moons.
Susan’s friend points, her pointing
finger poking at least one hole in the air. “Look there, Susan—under the pine—there’s
the bellboy.”
He’s shut-eyed and chapped-lipped,
conifer cones clinging to his cloak. He came over from the metro but belongs here
where glow-in-the-dark stars fade and fall from the ceiling onto the backs of
his dusty eyelids. His shoes are dusty too, from places he cannot go or come
from—the golden graham coast, the orchard, the whole lot of life uncontained in
a capsule.
Dust is elegant.
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