What Makes You Uncomfortable

 

When the eye of a dead fish

Met mine at the market,

I knew we shared a secret.

 

The way a glove on the sidewalk

Points accusingly at the passerby,

As if to reveal a hidden transgression.

 

Silence in a room where words

Ended in a quarrel, and now

Only the ticking clock dares speak.

 

The stare of a clock when sleep

Evades and the night grows claws,

Prowling with all our lost chances.

 

An empty swing swaying

As if a ghost child just leapt,

Leaving behind her laughter.

 

A lone shoe on the highway,

Its journey a mystery that

Hitchhikes with my thoughts. 

 

When you catch yourself

Mirrored unexpectedly in a shop window,

And your face looks like a question 

 

Someone asked in a dream,

But you woke up too soon

To remember the answer.