Beetlebung and Kettlehole--April Poems

Braces

Perhaps a seraph metamorphosed,
the guy who bags groceries at Publix,
incarnate in his gift of small talk
and a stare too long, making me blink.
“You buy green things!” He points
with his chin to my stuff
on the receiving end of the register.
“They help,” I answer, though I
couldn’t explain how, if he asked further.
He straightens, stiff on his leg braces,
to say, “I eat anything. I don’t care.”

I trace his words to shattered dreams,
beyond the reach of sunlight,
bracketed by a demon’s deed, but then,
is there ever a body not broken,
a mind not eccentric,
a heart that never aches?
Yet, he stuffs the wares into plastic
with poise as if his spirit
just gushed out of a monastery’s hush,
where pastel blue blossoms and faint pink
cherry trees exude grey shadows
and outcast things can be holy.

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prompt: braces