it’s your birthday.
the last day of your job.
or the first day.
it’s the day you
twist in your seat
(one small pop
coming from your back
as you turn,
not like when
you were younger,
and you could get your
entire spine
to crack when you twisted)
and look back
at the empty house
that was once full
as your home.
you are headed to
a new town.
you have just arrived
at your new apartment.
your new job.
your new school.
the new dive bar
that has been
around since the 1940s,
its floor layered
like cake.
sticky
then dusty then
sticky again.
“i hope your day is”
they say to you,
they say,
“amazing”,
“kickass”,
“blessed”.
on a gentle corner
in the hard part of town
a man sits.
it’s really more of a
bend
than a corner.
and it’s really more of a
collapse
than a sitting.
in his hand,
a thick paper cup,
the kind that
always disappoints
with its swollen lip
letting leak
the cooling coffee
of its containing.
inside the cup,
a rattling smatter
of coins.
a rustling of bills,
like the feathers
of any number of
birds, from this,
our paradise.
the man,
his body
is layered,
like cake.
sticky and then
dusty.
cracked
and then smooth.
his eyes shine
from behind their clouds.
his body is still,
save for the
twitch of the shoulder,
the wave of motion
rolling down the arm
to the elbow,
where it tightens
and intensifies,
rolling with conviction
to the hand,
the thick paper cup
at the end of it all.
shaking.
the rustling
feathers of these
useless bills.
the freedom
shining from these
cracked coins.
you walk by,
new town and
new shoes and
new buzz from
new craft beer
and new home
stuffed full of
old memories
and the paper money
and the metal money
and all of it,
all saying to you,
“i hope
you
have an
amazing day”.
zakschafer.com 