Looking Glass

By Zack Jot

A man walks down the street and is reflected in the gutter
by glittering nothings he and his others left to flutter through the night
He spies the shells of that which feeds, eternal structures that may fall apart
but live on in their pieces, things we left behind; among them
The mirror:
A hermit crab inside a can of Campbell’s soup
A derelict
Opens up his mouth to croak his tale
Canned, the laughter of a crowd from a past era still echoes

“Prosecco in a glass, to think eleven years have passed since then
I climbed the ladder unaware the rungs vanished below me
And now I laugh again to think how sightless I was then,
Perhaps if I had never even fallen I would still be
blind
to this kind of life
And I laugh at my surprise when I had found myself effaced, as faces
wouldn’t look at mine and footsteps wouldn’t break their line
and yes, from time to time that pattern breaks, and I can’t help but smile
at the irony that I laid once among those who turned their eyes”

A man walked down a street and saw his mirror in the gutter
but he hasn’t seen it since and fears it may be gone forever

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