Yard Sale of Thoughts

Do you ever empty your junk drawer when you should be doing other things?

Well, I’ve done just that, but with my journal. Tossed it’s guts out on the page for all to see. It’s illogical. It’s messy. It’s the worst.

Welcome to my junk verse.

Enjoy!

Katie

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I am at ease in a Japanese-style restaurant 
deep within a 3rd-rate shopping mall. 

Green tea mirror ball in my dimpled glass,
hits the palate like an antioxidant hot flash.

A bitter bark taste, but the best part:
refills are free as long as you can last.

(The toilet's down the corridor
past the child-size Muay Thai shorts).

When you ask about the look on my face, I reply,
"It's the drink, of course." 

 You wouldn't expect me to be in love with something so strange, 
but I'm documenting everything. 

Damn, the sweat on the forehead
like condensation on the stainless still pitcher, emptying fast.

Clink of ice. Arch of back.
Lime green against my lips.

I may be a little deranged,
but I'm floating between panic attacks.

Outside, a streetlight wrapped in cellophane,
waits to be opened, 
should their be a need for light.

You're sitting in my booth, which now feels
unfamiliar, 
tight. 

While outside,
 a wailing ambulance parts a sea of bikes. 

I'm sucking down the green light
while someone struggles for their life.

"What's good here? Sushi or noodles?"
You have the balls to ask.

And when I don't reply, you
remind me the air quality's bad.

I shouldn't go back out without
 a p95 mask.

No amount of green tea can protect
me from that.

What lowers the land's blood pressure,
make people burn less crops, 
less trash?

I've had enough of scare tactics,
millionaires with chainsaws,
and headless dogs without leash.

Screw the emails; the dross.

Nothing 
can reduce the deficit
or my recent loss.

Those who've left post.

How's it going to be
when the world is run by rich men
and a few, pale ghosts?

©2025 | K. F. Hartless

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Cover Art: Reilan