The Bulge of My Breathing
Deformed ribcage, calcified
ridge where bone once
sprung in a spasm. It slipped
out and shuddered back,
the knife of a stranger ending
the life of my great-uncle
in a bar back in ’59;
how the mind hardens.
The ache when I sleep
on it wrong, a pretty girl
accepting my flirtations
with a piece of kale
stuck in her teeth.
My rib before the boxing
match that cracked it, cold
in the shadow of the future;
a friend who would die
a day after asking me
to spare a beer. My shrug,
awkward reply: Sorry man,
we just don’t have enough.
The Other Me
is off walking shelter dogs
like I thought of doing
before my mind spun
in the centrifuge
and I spent hours
listening to shock jock
radio, grimacing. My other
is out there, his smile
relentless like Sam Cooke
Live in Harlem, while I sit here
and sharpen something
that will never dull.
Even as the remains of last night’s
cigarettes wait in my throat,
hiding from the day, he is
doing something honest
and his eyes never tremble.
Last night in the store
as they rung up my heart-
attack food, the clerks
gossiped about the customer
who comes in constantly
and never buys anything.
✶✶✶✶
Todd Follett lives in Easton, MA, and spends his free time writing poems, playing music, and taking photos. His work has appeared in Iron Horse Literary Review, Pleiades, Spoon River Poetry Review, and many other publications.
Another Chicago Magazine 