cracked

suzi q. smith
he looked
like his shadow should
a whisper of a man
moving in ash
and quiet residue
as if referring to who he used to be

an empty sack
being carried by the wind
receipt still pressed inside
silently noting its former purpose

he was almost invisible
as if each day
the eraser took a bit more of his color
leaving the outline
of sleeping dreams

a pressed shirt
on a wire hanger

a red balloon
longing for air

a desperate man