Samuel Minier:

Writing in the Dark

He drifts at my side in the mall,

dangling just beyond fingertips,

wrapped tight in plastic sac so that

his stiff arms push the membrane

as if trying to peer out.

Black-tufted head emerges fist

when I lay him on the counter.

A kangaroo with a mohawk – great intro

to wildlife and punk, she’d giggled.

He sits awkwardly on his rump,

head drooping, laminated pouch

empty. Meant to hold a picture;

she’d had a great one picked out.

Yeah, I’d like to return this –

not like to, but – here

just take it back.

No, no reason.

No receipt either.

lost it