Standing In Fat Joe’s Footlong Dogs While Waiting For A Bus

Chrome shined
from the incoming light
that peered between Fat Joe’s yellow-stained windows,
a shaky palm held the trigger,
the room grew dark,
walls shaded,
my heart pissed
into my ribcage;
I stared into nothing—the black hole
that chambered the bullet
which could have scribbled my blood
over posted menus,
my name over the bulletproof glass
that separated this gun
his hand
my head
from the register;
my body could have crashed, splattering
my joints to the checkered floor;
my nose could have smelled death creeping
over me like fog on highways—
dark laughter reigned,
webbing through my ears;
I held my breath,
closed my eyes—
but the ring-leader declined.
Their feet disappeared across the street.
A gray cloud hovered over the building,
darkening the brown brick color to black;
the wind scratched the gates,
bent the frames, changing the color
from green to complete grime;
the air echoed their tones
as I shivered,
gripping hold of my bag,
feeling my legs leave my brain behind.

*Norman Golar is a Master of Fine Arts candidate for the Creative Writing Program at The University of Alabama. He received his Bachelor of Arts in Creative Writing (2002) at Knox College, located in Galesburg, Illinois. He is originally from Chicago, Illinois, but has resided in the South (while pursuing current graduate degree) for over three years. Two of his poems—“G.H.E.T.T.O.” and “February 17th”—appear in the Spring 2004 issue of Touchstone.