by essayan hart
there is no ashtray. there is no thin line of smoke, of hopelessness.
no arms dangling, no fingers gracing the sticky laminate of the bar stool
no reminder of the spark inside, the spinning kid
there is no park bench. there is no lung full of winter air, of isolation.
no cracking knuckles, no bowing of the body around the secret heart
no reminder of the spark inside, the empty swing
these things all happen in great contrast
i stand here, not grey
i stand not black on white so sharply
i dwell in the complication of words without vowels
of dreams in arabic, in farsi
there is no boot. there is no wild tunnel of hard concrete, of possibility.
no crumbling voice, no bare feet on dirty subway tile
no reminder of the spark inside, the hollow instrument