1.
My favorite sweater, beautiful wool
cables burnt an olive green,
a fleet of the moment, flea
market purchase,
previously owned, I’d bet
money, by Father Time,
scratches my skin. A
living reminder, an existential
answer:
I itch; therefore, I am.
2.
On my street, storefront lakes
of concrete and glass stretch
into infinity, I think to paddle
past, not in need or
want of anything, instead,
always in want and need of
something, I stop to peer at
the glittery trinkets napping on
their velvety pillows, bored of
the endless admiration. In the
window, a face of youth absconded
joins me. I imagine, then, a cartoony
thief sneakily stealing year after
year, their crime unnoticed by this
poor stranger until too late.
3.
Inside my favorite house,
affluent Arabica air, infused
with stranger-to-stranger
conversation, I wander to the
counter and toss my order,
complete in two extinct words:
Black drip,
onto the barista’s counter.
Behind me, in the line of my past,
a thousand soft-skin dinosaurs
celebrate my retrogression by
stomping and laughing loudly.
With my order, molten lava
secured in a throwaway paper
cup, I stay for a beat, daring to dip
my toes into the house’s blend.
Around me, human thumbs crouch
like lions, hovering over bright
screens of prey, restless to swipe
at the first flash of light. Clutching
only my coffee, I stand out, a herring
in a field,
bright
and golden.
4.
Later, after hours locked in my time
capsule, a windowless space
heated with historical dust, I
manage to compress thoughts
that escaped days into bite-sized
bites, ideal for storage and
effortless consumption and
guilt-free disposal.
5.
Now, I stand lectern sturdy,
self-examined to the
bone, before a passel of
glossy, scrolling eyes,
a galaxy vast and black,
and listen to the leak of
a lifetime escaping
between us.
VA Wiswell lives outside Seattle, WA, with her human and animal family. Her work has appeared in Writing In a Woman’s Voice, The Lake, Smoky Blue Literary and Arts Magazine, 34th Parallel Magazine, Sad Girls Literary Magazine, Ignatian Literary Magazine, and OJA & L Magazine. She has poems and short stories forthcoming in Front Porch Review and Crab Creek Review. You can find her on Instagram at @vawiswell and http://www.vawiswell.com
Please note: Poetry is compressed to fit smart phone screens. If you are reading this poem on a phone screen, please turn your screen sideways to make sure that you are seeing correct line breaks for this poem.
THE CITY KEY 