He came in like a genie from a can

of budget aerosol aftershave,

just like he did from his curled-linoleum bathroom,

face red and bare, and I’d yell at him

with my young lungs, preferring the Velcro bite

bordering the beer-soured mouth

to go with the mesh of a trucker’s cap

hiding his horseshoe baldness. He didn’t look

like himself, I told him. In the spice

of his scented face, the haze of cigarette smoke,

he asked me how many girlfriends I had,

who I was voting for, made the dog groan

by asking if she wanted a bath. The floors

creaked, the wood-burning stove glowed.

Slowly he faded into the mist

of this fluorescent-lit department store,

although I thought I might just hear him

rummaging somewhere in another aisle.

----------------------------------------

Devon Neal (he/him) is a Kentucky-based poet whose work has appeared in many publications, including HAD, Stanchion, Livina Press, The Storms, and The Bombay Lit Mag, and has been nominated for Best of the Net. He currently lives in Bardstown, KY with his wife and three children.