The song in the mall is worn out from
playing on loop. In our minds, we circle
its syllables on packets we scan the bar
codes of. In the metrical pauses, we steal
glances at each other from the adjacent
aisles. It’s like looking in a magic mirror
that shows you your soul. We quietly thank
last customers of the day, and sit outside
in the dim courtyard, our heads hazy with
the smoke we share. The song is a fuzzy
beat of music now, pulpy like our shod feet.
The speech sounds, a self-effacing mix,
leaving behind vast tracts to be filled
with comforting lyrics.