The Green Shirt

Heard a kid, just now,

across the cafe, too loud,

planning some big thing.

A gesture, he called it.

For a girl, of course.

All confidence, that age,

before the first real crash.

I thought of the green shirt.

Not just green, but that specific

lime, almost sickly, shade.

And the hair,

layered badly, too much gel.

It was a Saturday night,

the air thick with cheap perfume

and something like hope.

No one said anything.

Not about the shirt,

or the way my laugh

kept getting too loud, too sharp.

Just a blank stare,

a polite turn of the head.

Like a bird in a cage

trying to sing outside.

It didn't work. Never did.

Just settled into the gut,

a small, cold stone

I still carry.

Like that kid, now, probably

already drawing up

his next bright, failing scheme.