stonesl

by Zachary Scott Hamilton

A metronome of fact burns underneath the soda machine. One segment of the room lets down a corner before straightening and collapsing out. The Asians smoke in one corner of time, girls from Europe eat silent food tucked in stripes and books. Outside, people leak the sun into each other, telephone conversations crossing through every one of them. Birds before the clouds, trees before the birds, telephone wires before trees, newspaper boxes before telephone poles, yellow awning before newspaper boxes, window posters before yellow awning and then Europeans and then me, an amoeba shelled in a donut shop.

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