The Haze

This guest contribution comes from Melissa Parietti. Melissa is a writer and finance professional from Long Island. This is her first work published online by an independent journal, with more to come!

When she’s not educating herself about investments, she enjoys learning about economics, and everything else too.

Gold melts in the July heat          gold sizzles on the frying pan

Buttered with thick pedestrian sweat

falling from greedy foreheads

dollars disappear into atmosphere.

Flood the streets with yolk

the morning rush soils all the aprons on avenue Q

everyone joins in and smears the egg yolk

adds the butter

drinks the tipsy

orange juice: her hair is tangled

just a mess of souryellow

wildbangs unrestrained.



All day long she has to look out the window where the girls in the white skirts have legs that teeter on high heel stilts. They wear bags that unbalance their reedy frames.

They date men in angles who carry a brief case, who sling silver on their wrists.

Her diner light is yellow

it glows so sallow

ontop of her skin

Her pants are too tight and drowning her thighs wish themselves away. They melt

like the butter on the pan.

She sweats money

eats the brilliant, oppressive sun

it crawls into her mouth and extracts gold and puts it into the sky

it make the haze and mirage warp her July mind

it makes gold

her lifeline.


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