The man at the counter
sells dreams
in exchange for breaths of air:
for an hour’s worth of 12-cycle-per-minute
minimally deep inspirations
he’ll hand over all possible worlds;
a single gasp will get you
a glimpse of the stars.
while I tally up my assets,
he leans in at me with his bright eyes,
persuading, confesses
that he’s behind on his mortgage:
People just don’t look up at the sky anymore.


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