Two heartbreaks ago you said,
“no trash heaps, no more”
but the shopping mall’s much better
in the afternoons when everyone else
is working, shoveling organs
from the left pile to the right.
“All’s fair sale,” said Mr. Mayor.
The dogs followed behind
close enough to trip on his trousers.
“Sale today,” he said. “Buying today,” said the dogs.
“I’m here to buy a new heartbreak,” you said.
“Why didn’t you say so?” asked Mr. Mayor.
The dogs howled, “3.99, 3.99,” and ran to the fountain
centered in the tile mosaic floor and drank from it.
Mr. Mayor sat on the fountains edge and rolled up his sleeve
before plunging arm-length to the blue bottom tiles.
He grabbed control of your hand
and placed the wet change in palm.
“That should be enough,” he said,
and pointed to the store adjacent.
The neon heartbreak store displayed a large sign,
3.99 unlimited refills.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 20, Issue 4.
See all items about Andrew Wittstadt