zodiac

he’s a dead flower of a person who pulls on his fingers.

waiting in line at the coffee shop.

counts the tiles and multiplies out like a timestable crossword.

coffee black three sugar. excessive but habitual.

lines up on the table. coffee. water. blue pill. white pill.

on a napkin. flatten the wrinkles.

takes the pills with the water. blue under tongue.

lets coffee go lukewarm. washes away grains from gums.

opens a notebook and crinkles the corners into origami dog ears.

writes down a dream he had last night.

people walking by think his eyes just have quickly flashing whites.

little strobes under oily thinning hair. 

finishes coffee. wipes corners of lips with corners of napkins.

folds meticulously and trashes.

goes to the bathroom. touches handle through sleeve.

stares at self for five minutes in mirror. 

with the water running., washes hands. twice because he forgot.

lines up three sugars on the countertop. excessive but habitual.

inhales them and dissociates counting his thoughts like dead flowers on the tiles.

splashes through a puddle of piss by the urinal.

grabs onto the sink and the walls to stay standing.

unlocks the door. goes out and pulls on his fingers.

—October 2021, Stanford, CA