shot glass
"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

Mark J. Mitchell



He lost his second wife in Buffalo.
She hid behind his books and slipped away
on their due date. Libraries are safe–dust
holds warmth. It smells like powdered hands. She curled
under some shelves and stayed. He had to go—
anywhere. Two yellow lines knew his name.
He loved spilled gas, new tar. Some arctic gust
Chased him through a door. He followed a world.
She lives on paper now. Her dreams are sad
but pretty. His eyes only squint at signs.
He never wonders. She thinks that's too bad
but flips her page. For now, distance excites
him like flame. She knows that her pictures will fade
quick as brittle paper, She swallows time.