There was a sound like a moccasin dropping
in the upstairs apartment.
A boy shouted in Cantonese
near the end of the street.
For a second the radio wavered between stations
and I was so busy
making myself marvellous.
I have the ugliest sunglasses
in the world because I am desperate.
I hate cell phones, attached
to their owners like idiot mittens,
ring tones hissing in endless emission –
a most unholy chorus.
Crossing the street in my sunglasses,
which are two-toned, my sandal snaps,
strap bursting from under the instep.
Even skimming the pavement,
it won’t play along. And I must enter
the sandwich shop shoeless, sandals
in hand, like Jesus, whose story
MY MONEY IS ON FIRE
to hurricanes. I’m going to tell
the drunk approaching my bench
I can’t give him a red cent. Look
at us. My money has done enough.
Sarah J. Sloat grew up in New Jersey, and after university lived in China, Kansas and Italy. She now works as an editor for a news agency in Germany. Sarah’s poems have appeared in West Branch, Opium, Juked, and Barrelhouse, among other publications. Her chapbook, In the Voice of a Minor Saint, will be published by Tilt Press in early 2009. Sarah keeps a blog at The Rain in My Purse.