a broom-handle his staff, his throne the trash bin, zit-dotted cheeks cushioning his longings, with vacant eyes on a gull he struts like a man of some importance until a shoulder-tap and he blinks

back-tracking steps—last night’s moonrise mom’s chicken wings on a tin plate, a beach stroll kicking sand dunes his toes a hermit-crab-moment

past brambles the bus stop: red-haired Norma Jean flags the #10 with her legs sheathed in printed tights takes the seat opposite his by the window with the warning sign, “for your safety please hold on”

on a cloud he gets off at Starbucks puts on his dress-length apron, takes his broom with the canary-yellow handle and stands by the trash bin with vacant eyes

the slow lick
to the tip of her
snow cone

morphing in bulk shadows a life-story

Alegria Imperial