Jason E Coombs

My February 13 is slipping from inside the stall of a food hall.I serve couples who are touristsat the night’s singles partymen’s eyes feast attractive women wonderaround a hope to engage in connecting lines like poets matching words to couple internal rhymes: their luv is trying on a glove my hain’t is painting a sorrow…

If my fingers were pounding an Olivetti Lettera would the jungle trek of the workdayfeel less like deforestation? If so, would the temporary paralysis above those keys be cracked once I’ve emailed another invoice? If not, could a deeper breath in this brief oasis of thought bring back the warmth lost when the sun sets…