by Glen Armstrong

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It has barbs but doesn’t cling,
seeps through one’s shoes

like puddle water.
It once slowed down to listen

to a young man singing
and playing guitar on a dark street

at an ungodly hour.
Street lights sputtered but failed

to turn themselves on.
8-volt batteries glistened

in their packaging less than half
a mile away.

What it does obscures what it is
as leaves obscure branches,

wigs obscure heads.
This new trend of mistaking misery

for irony obscures the previous trend
of mistaking the intense

for the literal.
It chokes on a pitted olive.

It only wears socks on its hands.

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© Glen Armstrong

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Glen Armstrong (he/him) holds an MFA in English from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters. His poems have appeared in Conduit, Poetry Northwest, and Another Chicago Magazine. 

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