treat
paul lenz
An Elvis barrette,
the only one I’ve ever seen,
kept her hair out of my eggs and toast,
but nothing stopped the flakes of peeled paint
from a reversible fan above the door
when her brother hit the switch -
“upnotdownupnotdownupnotdown” sounded like
one word between equally frantic chinese and apologies
across the counter where I sat picking clean my food
insisting I’d still pay.
Our eyes met and repelled, met and repelled
like magnetic north and south,
like cultures, connections,
and different kinds of hunger.
I left a folded five and walked out alone
to watch the Golden Gate rust
under picture perfect clouds.
