Pet Shop
       

People are wandering the aisles
looking for a pet. I am there
in the back with the silence

attending the fish and stones
who know about the false
currency under our tongue.

Even the walking-sticks disappear
among the reeds. They know we are thieves,
having stolen the fruit, water, fire...

Our grandmothers are live
ash, long white braids of smoke
rising into the hole in the sky,

leaving unrecognized by our children,
who continue trying to catch
anything that moves.

No loitering. Do not touch.
You break, you pay.
When no one is looking

I offer my fingertips.
Gold surfaces from the dark,
lips, soft as an infant's ears.

All day and all night
people tapping the glass,
desire to see, to be seen.

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Copyright © 2017 Robert S. Pesich All rights reserved
from Model Organism
Five Oaks Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission