against gray

a’

I watch his slow, delicate, floating but determined moves.
wrapping the silver piece of paper.
moving the small pair of scissors along the scarlet ribbon.
cutting where years of experience tell him that it's long enough.
carefully finishing a bow around the package.

I glance into the deep gray of his eyes.
he doesn't stare back, just humbly accepts his fee.

- Merry Christmas and happy holidays!
- To you too, child. 

tulips have never looked as great.
too bad he cannot see them.
I bet he knows they are beautiful.

b’

in the subway, a man staring at me angrily.

his girlfriend saw my flowers
and now wants some of her own.
in his mind,
I am clearly giving
a bad example.

as he stares,
a small piece of me detaches from the rest,
my left middle finger,
and floats away
like the ash from the tip of a lit cigarette

I touch where the piece used to be.
nothing.
I get scared, but try to ignore it.

I notice,

right across me,

the disapproving stare of an old lady.

it’s not clear,

if my excitement makes too strong a contrast

to her mood,

or if I attack her sense of taste with my existence,

but another piece of me,

a part of my cheek,

comes off and floats away.

more and more stares surround me.

I panic and jump out of the train,
dash up the escalator,
and with every step and every stare,
more and more pieces fly off.

she sees me running towards her,
a barely fastened knitting of shards.

as I fall completely apart,
I manage to hand the flowers over to her arms.

she smiled,
I think.

______

© Dimitrios Kokkinos 2015