“You can have all this,” I pull at my skin. “This you may have.”
He prods a finger at my temple,
“I want what's in here.”
His request falls heavily on my chest-
a familiar inquiry posed by only one other petitioner.

“You can't go in there," I remind him.
His face twists in dissatisfaction,
eyes shut in a moment of musing,
and I feel anxiously for fractures along my skull,
afraid that perhaps he has already made his way inside.

His hands sink deep in his coat pockets,
fumbling with loose tobacco and empty dime bags.

Disinterest looms as he ties his laces and fastens his buttons,
I concede.

the shards of my skull are removed hastily,
the semblance of a shattered mirror place in his palms
he turns over each piece, twirling them between his fingers

the shiny pieces are placed amongst the tobacco and baggies in his pockets, the rest are strewn at my feet

"Thanks," trails behind him.