Not once did the neon lights abide the outside snarls to disappear. Remaining neon, puncturing soft eyes and highlighting scuffed shoes, stained shirts, and extracting the sours from natural colors; those in the outside tablecloths, in the woven scarfs, the still plants, varied stoned paths.
A piano song titled ‘the vigil’ lays low beneath the glow, crawling, nearly begging, it inches its way through the store’s front door ajar. Violin sweeps both feet out the door and cello reels it back as onlookers startle to its cry in passing. Flute leaps adjacent to the button-operated fruit cream machine (self serve frozen yogurt in a previous life). Flute rises, percussion cheers, teamwork outward, the pair harmonize. Bold, reachless they flow, seamless they unfold, sound they go. Lights bolt, watts in angst, hovering high, and spying low, presence abound. With artificial vision they cast their glance brighter across the meats, above the cans, between the jars- warming boxes and bags. Beating after creams and power drinks.