A Day in December
By Lyndon German
QuailBellMagazine.com
QuailBellMagazine.com
The shopping malls, red banners and price tags
distract me from watching
a group of deaf kids shouting with their elbows
two tables across from me. I can't help but look.
The fat one in the red sweater moves like a boxer.
Her fist ae thick, arms wide open
as if she were throwing a left cross.
The others nod and shoot fists back.
It's hard not to admire the way they communicate.
Looking down at my hands I feel disgusted.
I have battered fingernails and sour knuckles.
As I write these words I feel no better than
the teenage boy frying corn dogs and hot fries;
pitiful, young and altogether unknowing.
two tables across from me. I can't help but look.
The fat one in the red sweater moves like a boxer.
Her fist ae thick, arms wide open
as if she were throwing a left cross.
The others nod and shoot fists back.
It's hard not to admire the way they communicate.
Looking down at my hands I feel disgusted.
I have battered fingernails and sour knuckles.
As I write these words I feel no better than
the teenage boy frying corn dogs and hot fries;
pitiful, young and altogether unknowing.
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