Five on the shorthand, that morning
Routine ran on a tight schedule, like trains
I once stepped onto. One week conditioned
Me from out the slow waves with ease,
And I was left with eyes wide opened,
Head still empty-handed. Under morning’s
Slate gray ceiling, I darted eyes to the corners
And searched past the window to follow
The sound. I strained muscles in ears
To single out footsteps that grinded
Grass into rain-stained dirt. Pupils
Widened, filled up brown irises,
At contact of his shadow. Shoe froze
mid-step, when eyes matched. Two
on the longhand; in headlights, his early exit.
. . .
More of Paris Hughes’ work can be found in The Literary Yard, Untitled and With the Passengers.
Contraposition 