On Hawthorne

// Sheila Dong

Aftertaste of orange
candy, aftertouch
of velvety buds on
fingertips: wreaths
of pussy willow
in green shopfronts.
The sound of indigo
hair waves: my
cashier, like a tall
bar of beeswax,
piping to his coworker,
He has the moon’s
phases tattooed on
his chest. Here,
the chief of police
has the last name
Outlaw. Here,
a barbershop
spins white letters
in its window:
We offer…conversation.
So many dogs,
jostling little bells.
Sun out briefly,
a savory oil
on the tongue.
I roam with
a notebook and
a pen in my teeth,
wishful or famished,
willing it all to stay.
A sign on darkened
glass makes a
promise: We
haven’t closed down!
We are transitioning
to a performance
space.