By: Joe Meyers
On the street, in the night, Salazar wears ribbons.
His head held high beside leeching city rock
Pocked with eyes, vacant and grey, too dry to weep,
Trapped within fragile history
Leaning towards collapse,
Applause and memory.
The lives held there will drift further
Than all the dust carried upon all the winds
Carrying the phrase "Thank God".
Salazar hears shoes scuff and stumble,
A shadowed tap dance,
Steps recorded in dust,
And old mannequin poses.
Some notice how light changes
As the blood congeals.
But where does it strive to flow?
To horizons fighting a heavy sunrise.
Joe is a retired baker living on the shores of Flathead lake in Polson, Mt. He is a graduate of the University of Montana with a B.A. in English with an emphasis on creative writing. He's been published in Sunder Press and Eighteen Seventy magazine.