A cloud inside the patina’d warehouse,
the arrogant song of the ice cream man.
Kids with their small, legitimate demands,
buds on the trees like tiny fists.
What followed me home in the sooty light
was the sketch of an animal, the mere idea
of hunger. Can’t find it now, but sometimes I feel
my hair lift in the dark.
I saw a magician vanish
a whole airplane once, but later found out
that he had just turned us
into the kind of people who wouldn’t notice.
I heard the GOP has got a plan, a kind of breathing
machine. The song it plays
is positively amniotic, even at the highest
setting, you’ll hardly notice—you’re soaking in it!
As for me, I’m required to sleep
all day, like a sheet of tin in the sun.
Like a girl in a yellow school bus
with glossy hair that reminds me of horses
and a sad, pink shirt. One day she’ll know.
Someone stares out of every window. Everyone follows
the long shadows
into the afternoon, the golden hour.
Aaron Jorgensen-Briggs lives in Brooklyn. Sometimes he puts stuff on the internet - http://flotson.net
