BARCODES
I met this girl who goes by the name Barcode
she is pale,
and wears her hair in dark snappy fringe
much like a frantic piano that can’t seem to stop clacking
last night, we spoke in code
together
about how trees twisted from blackened roots
and that there is not enough colour in
this room we call our world.
she thought for a minute and said
“I sell
cheap art on the corner of Bookend Ave.”
we looked at her paintings
fresh slabs of bright red meat for the
market
some cool and calm like the hush of a lullaby
and as we talk I stop to burn a hole
through the wall
as I stare
they are cheap to buy,
but cheap is not cheap when you give value to something
I tell her the world is not black and
white
and most certainly never just grey,
but only blank to the canvas; ripe for the painting
and she nods hard and fast
like an excited zebra she believes she can, as do i
but what is the difference between
Barcodes and I? are we really much
different
other than by the ink in our veins?
we are all separated in age,
by the stroke of a comb
and I have heard of seeds
forgotten in the earth
bright moons concealed by a shadow's eclipse
and in this world it’s only a matter
of paying the right price to
shine
and Barcode agrees, as do I.