7-11 at 11:13

I turn the corner
And spy in the dark,
In the shadows
Behind the seven eleven,

A man in pajamas
And a warm jacket
In the cool March night air.
He swings his foot forward;

Not a graceful motion,
But swift: he kicks
A rock on the ground
Or perhaps just the air.

It brings to my mind
The way I feigned
To kick the wall
After a lost point in racquetball.

Perhaps it was the maudlin song
Playing at the grocery store,
Or maybe echoes of my heart or yours,
But I feel the ache contained

In his silent outburst
In the shadow
In the dark
At eleven thirteen.

© 2014 H.K. Longmore