The man, he reeked of castanets,
a fine flamenco glance.
Someone like him shouldn’t be here,
in lesser forms of peasantry.
So why, do his lips reflect such ferocity?

Perhaps it’s merely awe, at undertones,
the palpable kind, in which, they grab you by the trachea.
It’s something in his aura, red with intention,
something of a drive, a dead end careening.
What motives lie, ulterior, inside?

It’s the landscape, not arid, but barren,
ravaged is the word, for the trees,
which crumble into unusual soot,
and the soil, shades of yellow and radiation.
It only harvests the kind of burn that tortures the DNA.

He must be warped, or perhaps, not warped enough.
His grin, it’s not just unsettling, like a field of snapdragons,
Ii’s normal, as if nothing happened in the end.
He even greets the passersby, as if they weren’t wooden crosses.
Denial, it must be, as that’s a relatable trait, right?

That dreamy look, just like mine, but how?
He looks as if observing beauty,
as if the birds haven’t stopped trilling,
as if the water was still crisp and blue.
It’s not, I can’t see it, perhaps it’s jealousy?

Jealousy, yes, of not being oblivious.
What one wouldn’t give for being unaware,
and to have thoughts of apple pastries
and fine Vermouth, to take the edge off.
I never indulged, but the feeling is universal.

Observation was met with concrete,
the most clumsy pseudo-stalker this side of Ohio,
or, is it Ohio, it’s unrecognizable now…
my chance meeting was with the general store,
he’s inside, making a purchase, yet I find it captivating.

Such day-to-day doldrums, so alien to this plain,
consumables usually grated, as they were inedible.
Jewelry, was long since coveted by hilltop misers.
it never pays to be fashionable, always unassuming.
Wallflowers can be beneficial, in stealthy exploits.

Creeping, aisle to aisle, like some spectral grocer
looking for something to tide the long trip beyond.
There he is, in clinking change distractions,
doesn’t realize he’s being tailed, maybe for the better.
People are more dangerous than the fauna could aspire to be.

I hadn’t noticed his items, as my own delusions were afoot,
The tiles beneath almost guffawed, blowing my cover.
Not like it mattered, I was a master at avoiding contact,
since awkwardness became second nature.
He’s on the move, no time for comforts of home and pity.

It’s then, I realize, this place has been abandoned for years.
The last customer was a spider, buying the finest in webbing.
Why is he here, why am I?
It dawned on me, he’s looting, besmirching morality itself.
Wait, am I the delusional one?

This is no place for the holier-than-thou,
the great equalizer was only made all the greater.
No status, rank, class, whatever you prefer to call your segregations,
so, perhaps I’m the abnormal sort, clinging to facets of before.
Look around, it’s all gone, everyone, every tithe.

Just then, his hand reaches into his denim,
despite the wear and tear, the pockets seem to be intact.
Is he paying for the bounty? How absurd, how ridic--
in a defining thud, his hand comes down on the counter,
making what remains of fluorescent bulbs, shudder.

As he walks away, curiosity beckons.
Such an annoying nag, no wonder marriage had never appealed.
Something‘s off, it‘s not change at all, but keys.
Typewriter keys, that can‘t open doors, let alone, speak again.
Why persist in such a bizarre custom?