Through the open door;
Tapped open by the playful prairie breeze,
Comes a man.
This man has a story, as does everyone else.
However, for this striding figure,
Standing tall and slightly large,
There was neither need nor reason
To share a time long past.
His clothes were out of season,
And poorly fitting for the time of day.
A collared purple shirt,
Decorated with tropical floral
Wore him like a flirt.
Velvet pants, shimmering with each step,
Electrified his egotistical stride.
With wrinkles like a rocky outcrop,
And colors most abhorrent today,
The sluggish outfit was complete.
Jaunting up the the well-loved counter—
Tended to by well-hated men—
And slowing by a slight amount
For those unlucky enough to cross his path,
He rested an older, pudgy hand
On the exposed splinter board.
All it took was a small glance
From this month’s wretched clerk
To set this man in motion;
“A pack o’ Marlboros and a coke...
Make sure it’s cold.”
An inaudible sigh—
I doubt anyone else heard the forsaken utterance—
echoed silently from the clerk’s unmoving lips.
Full of despair, this uniformed creature stepped back,
Turning his mind towards the cigarettes,
One of the many things he longed
But could never have.
Opening the case, and picking a carton,
He placed the weathered box upon the stressed counter.
The worst of the bunch... that’s why this one is hated.
After a couple of seconds,
The world, as if once trapped in stasis,
Was shattered back into movement.
The offending hand, wrinkled and haired,
Belonged to the confident customer.
“And the coke?”
He questioned, the corrosion leaking from his words.
“Oh... sure.”
The clerk mumbled in reluctant submission.
The cowardly one dropped to a kneel,
Pulling the coke out of an old icebox—
It was probably his—
And placed it lightly on the counter,
Not daring to shake the time bomb.
After the amount was rung through,
And a grimy $6.76 was paid in full,
Two hands—well known by now—
Seized the chemicals like it was his right...
And it was, because he bought that death.
Strutting out of the store,
his slimy hands slipped into his packet,
Drawing out his heroic match,
Like Excalibur from the stone.
A simple strike along the rusted doorframe,
And a smoldering cigarette later,
We gazed as a lit match was thrown back;
It’s fall like a clock of death,
Slowly ticking towards the man,
Bearing down beyond the corners
Of those sharp yet simple eyes.
I watched this kind of scene unfold as I wrote it. It was fun to write. It sure as hell took a bit. And there are no edits, like usual. I wrote what I wanted, so yeah.