To the Cashier I See Every Tuesday
You
always say “let's run away to Mexico.”
The
letters rattle off your glossed lips
like
pellets in the chamber of an air rifle.
My
smile always snaps, when I take my change.
My
fingertips brush against your ring finger
and
feel your wedding band, the gold washer,
that
stops us both from leaking.
Mermaid
Seen on Shore
I was beach bound,
watching ghost crabs claw
out of sand, sides of sand dunes
steel pots boiling them alive.
My feet bled, juiced against
fissured rocks, I stood
where crushed shells met water,
waiting for anyone to see me.
When I tried to breathe
with the ocean, moonlit waves
eroded me to foam,
as I drifted to sea.
Testing
My Eyes at Night
make
seeing at night easy,
with
painted houses
like
tiny moons
refusing
to retire
for
the night.
Dashboard
needles
stretch
across numbers
like
a catcher's arms
going
for wild pitches
as
my foot presses the gas.
Caught
in a tight turn,
I
cut off my headlights so my eyes
can
explore the dark outlines
of
concrete barricades
and
faded speed limit signs.
I
want the shadows to leave
no
room for light,to be in complete
darkness,
but the mocking orange
rays
of street lamps ahead
saturate
my windshield.
Rolling
up to a traffic light,
engine
in idle,
the
light's red glow taunts me.
I
flick my foot
to
tweak the throttle.
BIO: Donald Paris is currently studying poetry in Queens University of Charlotte's MFA program. His work has appeared in The Camel Saloon and Split Ink Poetry.
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