looking
through a red gelatin
barbershop window
I watch
you strut
—a Bollywood star in a Gustav Klimt sari—
body and hair perfumed
with sand-scented oil
the dust motes part before you
as you step
into empty air
in this desert town
someone built a therapeutic ice pack man
out of therapeutic ice packs
stacked them high
and stuck motion-detector
light-bulbs in for his eyes
crazy-glued chains of magnifying glasses for arms
and pieces of plastic window-display sushi for fingers
the ice-pack man
tilts his head as you glide by
instinctively aware that you flee nothing
and that nothing about you is obsolete
you make we want to eat ice cream
and admit my problems
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