The sleek downtown building shakes
upon my arrival. The woman who
interviews me has flat silver hair, like a fish,
a head of flashing scales. She fingers
her Montblanc pen, I think of marbles.
As in, I lost mine a long time ago.

As she talks, I fall into a reverie in which
we become BFFs. We go to the doctor,
and there I see her heart looks like a chicken
claw. I come to and learn that you can scratch
a surface and only find more self-critique. I mean,
I didn’t get the job.

Outside a burst of chemical vapor as a priest
rips his Juul. It dawns on me there is no marble
emoji and this briefly provokes in me unbearable
pain. To bring myself joy, I think of a first date I had
in which I was most impressed by my date’s parrot
named Angel, who played fetch like a dog.

The skyscrapers shine like blunt
quartz. On the ground a worm spills
its guts in a gesture of hello, and I wonder
when you die who keeps your ghost warm.

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JOSH VIGIL is a writer living in NY with work in or forthcoming from Chicago Review of Books, Full Stop, The Rumpus, and Washington Square Review.

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