Goldfinch
A break in the traffic pushed me
away from the cigarette butts,
plastic bags, sneakers,
things lost their fight at the bus stop
to fly across the road
winged, nose squashed but
fists balled and grinning split lips
asking for it again,
the insult
“pretty boy,"
spat at me a second time
a confirmation of the first, no accident.
Pinned by the shadow
of his sleeveless, muscled anger
lengthening my own in the cinders, blood,
hot wash of exhaust,
I had the premonition
that it would be worth having dared him
to get off at my stop
just to be able to warble that boast,
"pretty,"
long and jumbled
to each day thereafter,
and I have, often, living up
to the standards of that cocky bird.
- © Matt Thomas 2023
Matt Thomas is a smallholder farmer and occasional community college teacher. His work has appeared recently in Cleaver Magazine and Dunes Review. He lives with his partner in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia.
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