//Figuration Nº.8//

//Figuration Nº. 8//

The chaw-stained smile of a hard-hatted scarecrow

turned corporate confidence man
calls to mind shades of a chequered past.

He cuts his Cope with coffee grounds,
farts and smiles
like the Devil,
and bears his old denim jacket the same way.

His dog

-shys away from him still.

“You’re getting older. You’re going to have to live with yourself soon.”, I say, as the lunch hour litter of newspapers, crumbs, and soft-pack cellophane ebbs its way between bathroom stalls, into the parking lot, under lockers -only sometimes lapping at the lip of the trash can. His quick-lipped close-snipped speech for once fails him. He's puckered tight as a dog's asshole.