If for every word I lay down, someone else throws two soda pop tops up in the air where they glisten, false metal hard in the sun; and the crowd says oooh.

If somewhere a hand snaps a cloth around the mouth, tightens a blindfold, tucks the glistening, form-fitting spandex around the body, checks the buckles of its expensive shoes.

If the moth trembles in the eaves, it is for every story lived that someone else appropriates: reconstitutes with plastic, fiberfill; turns into amuse-bouches.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.