by Emily Troia

At the department store…

I’ve lost my muse
in this climate-controlled
maze of make-up counters,
contorted mannequins,
and price-cut promises.
I looked away
for just a moment,
wondered how that prescription
calm would fit my figure.
Why did I try the damn thing on?
I looked away.
Now, he’s gone.
I’ve searched behind the metal racks,
under the precisely-folded, plaid shirts,
and called out when I saw
a navy, cashmere V.
But he isn’t here.
The lost-and-found is empty
and so am I.

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