Two by Jeff Burt
 
The Pawndealer’s Legend

She had pawnable assets
The scimitar curve of her hips slicing a skirt
The little pop her lips made before taking a breath
The squint of her left eye when a calculation was called
The titter that trolled in her throat before leaping into laughter
So she pawned them to a man handing out change
And years later when she returned homogenized and sane
He would not give them back
Preferring to keep them locked in the cabinet of precious things
Taking them out only when dark and alone
So that no one could witness his tears

 
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Leaving

The dust off the factory floor lives
            in your lungs for the rest of your life
And the dirt of your town rides 
            like a tide in the lower tissue
You think of how much you liked your work 
            and loved all else
The fellowship at dawn and robins 
            diligently plying prey from the ground
And drivers going to pick corn 
            the swirls behind truck tires like dervishes in a desert
And hummingbirds penetrating agapanthus 
            as the metronome of sprinklers pace
You never conceived that daily insignificance 
            could steal your breath like a woman who’s brazen
And warms your shoulder with a hip 
            and a wink, wetting her lips
Short breath, shallow breath
            like after lovemaking
Frightened that a full deep breath 
            would startle her and she’d break away