and by the shopping cart returns,
treading the lines of where cars
should be is a monochrome man
gazing feetward, hellward.
he is thinking hard or not at all.
grease shines from under his half-inch
of stubble, but nothing shines in his eyes
– perhaps there are no eyes, just brows
furrowing deeper and deeper, digging
holes of worry, digging graves out of
dreams, hopes, and promises made.
sold and double-crossed, he spits.
fingers fidget. grabbing for what?
perhaps the empire he had once lived for.
perhaps the thought of his grandchildren.
perhaps the impulse to scrub his palms
raw, red, never clean ever clean not
clean enough. he looks about himself.
he walks away, no shadow, but a spattering
of rain.
Julia Maria Ortiz is a writer and recent graduate of Smith College. Her work has appeared in Firefly, Rose Quartz and Honey & Lime. She loves fairy tales, warm cocoa, and is newly obsessed with Animal Crossing.
Julia is a Regular Contributor at Teen Belle Magazine.