The Prowler’s Reflection by Sy Roth

The Prowler’s Reflection
By Sy Roth

The mirror ate him
gobbled him whole
swallowed him in noisy gurgling, burping chances
enormous bytes, and
transformed him into ragged-jagged edges
into a mere reflection of some former self he has imagined.

There among Macy’s racks, he disappeared
awash in their spring clothing line.
He skirts the florals and prints,
she, immersed. fingers them all.
He separates from them
while she wonders aloud
does this fit?
He mumbles and shrugs.

In his black, jean jacket,
Ebony jeans, and motorcycle boots,
chains jingles and clang escapist around his ankles.
He meanders the racks in stark contrast to the billowy cottons,
while the prim hunter searches the 65%-off racks.

He prowls the edges of the displays,
rubs offhandedly against the garish display
distastefully watches the other marauders of the racks.
The four-sided mirrors captures him.
He approaches it on panther paws, nosily
circumnavigates its four corners—
tips his head tentatively toward the first reflective surface.
Quickly withdraws parenthetically leaving it a shrug.

Do you like this one, she tosses him a reminder?
dismisses the sound of her voice with a crooked smile,
Slinks to the rear of the racks and discovers the second
Tosses it a Hollywood look,
swishes his severely hand-combed-back hair ,
pony tail flounces in the mock breeze he creates.

Dolce and Gabbana dark glasses perch on his forehead.
He lets loose a smug smile,
facade of indifference in the overstocked racks.
This one? she calls out to the ghost in the third mirror.

He twists to the fourth, a prevarication on his lips
“Yeah, sure,” finds a toothy, simpering grin tattooed onto its smudged surface.
Shoulders hunched in bravado of lost youth
Chains clink against the sides of his jackboots.
As he struts he kicks out at the fourth mirror in Kung Fu swagger.

He notes the pot belly protruding beneath his jacket
stretched like a full water balloon
the air leaves him, laves him in the quagmire of his existence.

I’ve saved you 150 dollars, she coos.
The images disappear.
He prowls lackluster and lugs her bags to the down escalator.

@2015 Sy Roth

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