The Scissors

we ogle our own images in reflections of storefront windows

peering around edges and tripping on dimes

that fall from broken payphones

that a bum has taken the jagged edge of an empty

vodka bottle to

in the last moment of desparity

on the edge of insane

that we all really know is just sanity-

in a white dress.

the fleeting love that drives our madness

is burning in the reflection on the metal

blades dripping with the sweat of passion—

to bleed every dime out of the payphone

so the old man with the bandages

over his hands from the nicks and bleedings

of the raw edges of the bottle that drips his poison

can buy another drink—

another ‘round for the whole lot

that have run away from the circus.

The End

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