ManicWorld Magazine

Inside the apothecary:
A tattered heart, a box of scalpels
A purpled cupcake, a lamp that glitters
Shadows above the stairs, stars twinkle
A girl stitches, counting in threes and nines
While a ruddy man twitches and fritters
And hovers with gaping chest
And yelps when she ‘forgets’ to reattach snapped tendons,
Barely expresses gratitude whenst his heart’s returned, hardly new.
The girl does caution him it can’t take
The strain once again. He pays her in
Ivory and gold few.

Disdained, she leaves for lunch at Kendall’s
Where meagre promotions run rampant:
One bun for the price of two!
Nevertheless she does pay up; bone and coin,
Unicorn liver nowhere else tastes better or fine.
The sun turns red, falls. An itch, a zit.
She waves off cosmetic sellers. Bring not that perfume near me.
The apothecary glows orange, warm cinnamon, and books,
The line ever grows.
Heads turn in wist and feet drum in haste,
Carrying ript hearts and sheltering from cruel rains–
Once traffic runs out and taps grow cold again,
Red curtains pull across and she’s tucked into bed.