by Howie Good
We have turned back the clocks, and now it’s dark
both when I leave for work and when I leave work
for home. Tantalizing illusions designed to keep us
toiling have dwindled to a tattered few. I see my own
disillusion reflected in other people’s somber faces
and nagging anxiety. Children choose to stay indoors
on their screens or are forbidden to play by themselves
outside. Grackles, a type of scavenger bird, gather in a row
on a powerline, shadows of a broken world. I google it
on my phone. A collection of grackles is called a plague.
both when I leave for work and when I leave work
for home. Tantalizing illusions designed to keep us
toiling have dwindled to a tattered few. I see my own
disillusion reflected in other people’s somber faces
and nagging anxiety. Children choose to stay indoors
on their screens or are forbidden to play by themselves
outside. Grackles, a type of scavenger bird, gather in a row
on a powerline, shadows of a broken world. I google it
on my phone. A collection of grackles is called a plague.
Howie Good's latest poetry collection, True Crime, was published by Sacred Parasite this year. He co-edits the journal UnLost, dedicated to found poetry.
