In Poems & Fiction

On my street, the trees

don’t know their names.


Paper boys are paper girls,

who invisibly arrive and vanish at dawn.


Our house, the one

the color of milk,


is surrounded by blue, shivering roses.

The shouting windows


are sealed, but un-curtained,

so the neighbors can peer


into the living room, where no one lives,

as my mom parades around nude, again,


to prove to the sofa and chairs from Sears

she’s not dead yet, Mister,


not by a goddamned long shot.




Appeared in Right Hand Pointing, No. 60. February, 2013.

Start typing and press Enter to search