Black, collared coat wearing an entirely average man.
Purply light imitates a cheap heaven from lowered ceiling tubes.
Forgettable chairs beckon his behind from behind.
Yet he stands alone,
quarantined by size 14 women who plump no nevermind
around this crummy, carpeted hallway.
His left hand holds the top and his right hand holds the bottom.
A black & white photo.
No, a strand of black & white photos.
The tiniest of small smiles hides from coffee breath and scaley lips.
He sees something he likes.
The window of his woman.
Closer. Bring them closer.
Squint. Blink. Blink.
Five photos to keep him up at night.
No relief at zero hour when he staggers to the kitchen for warm milk,
reaches for the fridge and sees the
sonogram photos.
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