When I discover I'm sharing his bed with several women, I walk to the corner store, buy a package of chocolate-covered licorice, and chain-eat my way around the neighbourhood,
trying to breathe deeply.
A familiar voice … "D'ya have a quarter?" This is the man who usually says, "You're looking
so beautiful today."
Rather than walking by as I normally do, I sit on the bench, hold out my bag of candy. People
skirt around us, glance, look away. Pressing a coin into his hand, I meet his glazed eyes and squint against his cigarette smoke, glad for an excuse for tears.
A long pause when I ask his name … "Charlie."
"I'm Joyce." He gazes at my outstretched hand, grasps it, presses it slowly to his lips. His soft moustache brushes my skin.
in the windowbox
a dead finch