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Wednesday, April 24, 2013


by Zach Fishel

Somewhere in
between the worn edge
of my debit card and bar tabs
sings the sound of an old
guitar leaning
forgotten between
            portfolios and pie charts.
The dust collects
                        as the paint cracks
on every Midwestern
water tower,
                        reaching starward
against this flatness.
            Roaring like the extra
jets arcing overhead,
too many blasts,
            bombings bursting
in bottlenecks as balding
            and half cracked
bells ring out of
their ipods,
            On metro rails, and city subs,
The red and blue lines
pump us through the El or
into happy hours
and coney dogs.  
With the patience
of a forgotten
tree house,
you wait
            for us to remember,
            how to climb
            back to
our thoughts
and prayers,
the quiet little toughness
of deciding to
            cuff that old
bully on picture day.
                        Unless it means
Actually showing up to practice. 

Zach Fishel is the poetry editor for the University of Toledo Press as well as operator of Horehound Press, which specializes in limited run books and broadsides. His poetry has twice received Pushcart Nominations and has appeared in multiple countries. He can be contacted at zachary.fishel(at) for all writerly things, especially his chapbook Prayerbook Bouquet