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Eight billion biopics.
And you have a supporting role
in a sliver, at best.
Perhaps you’re the barista
who remembers the lonely usual,
or the cab driver
who hums someone from the brink.
No monologue.
No slow-motion flashback.
But you held the door,
and someone noticed.
You lit a cigarette,
and someone quit.
You weren’t the star.
You were the scene
that made the star believable.
And that’s enough.
It always was.
Berriozábal Jowls
They open their mouths
like the world owes them an answer.
Maybe it does.
Teeth like little white knives,
chewed down by sticks and time,
tongue flapping like it’s got something to say.
It doesn’t.
But still, they climb the table
like gods in the wrong mythology,
demanding sacrifice
in bacon, ball, or bone.
I’ve known men
less honest
than a Lab mid-yawn.
There’s no grand metaphor.
No big truth.
Just a good set of gums
and the nerve
to grin at the void.
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