Flashbacks convoke me to crepuscular hours
when I was about seven at gramps. From
the restroom I could see his renters: didn’t
understand the intimations of their acrobatics.
They had me hooked unlike riddles in maths
or what else I was macerating. I would stand
in his washroom ensorcelled by the magic of
their moves, undertaking lessons in addiction
and obsession. I didn’t have a front seat view.
Had I a few centimeters I could have gleaned
those glyphs better.