The Staff Only bookstore door
swings too loudly for the literature section,
my comfortable vinyl chair, and the girl
in tattered jeans sports a piercing—
I don’t know its name
between her chin and bottom lip
where my beard grows a detached hair island
each strand a tear while shaving
so I imagine the piercing hurt
like a fireball or
like losing a favorite dog-eared copy
of Tom Sawyer—
but I reserve sympathy because she pounds
that door like a diner short order cook.