Iron Links

Iron strikes flint.

Sparks fly; no flame.

Again, iron on flint.

The sparks disappear.

I feel a shift in my calm demeanor.

My stoic front crumbles, giving way to silent desperation … the sort I’ve witnessed in a child’s eyes when his mother says ‘no.’

The cigarette in my mouth begins to dance.

Spark.

Spark.

But no flame.

These are my chains.

My eyes scan the diner.

I need a light.

Two men seated at the bar are glued to the TV as Tiger Woods putts for a birdie.

The booth beside me holds a man placing his bet on Sunday’s ballgame. Sweat glistens on his forehead.

Behind him, three young women sit together. Their burgers grow cold as they play on their phones.

Two young men across the aisle stare at the girls.

A waitress rushes by, whispering to her friend about the new shoes she’s been eyeing.

Chains.

Chains are all I see.

Chains like anacondas with their ever-increasing constriction of our souls by iron links.

My gaze falls upon an old man sitting in the corner. His table is cleared, save for a glass of water that sits before him.

He looks straight at me. Our eyes meet.

I raise a brow and my cigarette – a question without words.

The man understands, chuckles, then shakes his head ‘no’.

I try again.

Iron. Flint. Spark.

These are my chains, ever choking this life from me.