is stepping out of a long line at the coffeehouse because the line to weep in a nearly forgotten corner of your mind is much shorter.
is a senile black poodle you sometimes miss more than your suicided wife and the cold truth of that makes you wonder if you shouldn’t have followed her example.
is a radio that plays nothing but static 24/7, volume either too low or too high.
is an army of ghosts marching in-step behind you everywhere you go; at night they take up all the room in the bed as you lay there wondering why you can’t get to sleep.
it’s a daylong symphony of ambulance sirens playing to barren streets, early evening chorus of pots & pans toasting those who’ve survived another tour of an invisible war.
it’s avoiding the supermarket on a Sunday afternoon because it’s that unassuming box of Shredded Wheat that just might break you.
it’s a scene in a medical drama reminds you of the poetic irony of trying to breathe life back into a corpse.
it’s a revolving door that opens up to a down escalator that leads to a revolving door that opens up to an up escalator that leads to a revolving door that--
it’s walking down the sidewalk to the thrum of nearby traffic, people passing left, right, children zipping by as the cats & dogs watch you as the birds & insects watch you as the sun & clouds watch you as the moon & stars watch you -- everyone & everything moving forward.
-- Michael Passafiume is a Brooklyn, NY-based writer who received his MFA from Antioch University Los Angeles. His work has appeared in Black Heart Magazine, The Louisville Review, Madcap Review, Meat for Tea and Welter Online, among others. His chapbook, “archipelagos,” is available from Blue Hour Press. He occasionally tweets from @passafiume.