The man behind the fish counter
weighed out a half-pound of Fluke,
wrapped it, handed it over and said,
Anything else? I wanted to ask him
about the latest shootings but knew
he was strapped to the same machine
I was (flames and sparks shooting
out around his body, halos of gold
and silver stars). That’ll do it. Thanks,
I said. And because we were familiar
to each other, we smiled and nodded.
I put the fish in my green basket and
walked away, feeling the bindings
tighten slightly, heat increasing,
thinking, this is all wrong. Every bit
of it. Then I saw the wave of sparks.
Paul Lojeski was born and raised in Lakewood, Ohio, and he attended Oberlin College. His poetry has appeared online and in print. He lives in Port Jefferson, NY.