I WANT TO MEET THE OWNER OF THE FIRST BOOKSTORE BROUGHT DOWN BY AMAZON

Confession of a UPS Driver

by T. R. Poulson

Amazon opens up Prime delivery service to other retailers in its latest move to compete with FedEx and UPS. —CNBC, April 21, 2022

I want to find a bar on a dark street

with a strange name, tucked in a city

I’ve never visited. I want to meet

the bankrupt bookstore owner, and make witty 

conversation only two passionate lovers

of books would understand. I’d order wine

and tell her I’ve punched gate codes, delivered

books from Amazon to folks off Skyline

Boulevard.  I’d say I’m sorry.  We would joke

about Anne Sexton, Dr. Seuss, and obscure 

heroes, villains. We’d share more wine, poke

fun at Hamlet, digress to Joshua, to a hooker

named Rahab, who once hung a red ribbon   

to save herself when foreigners toppled 

the walls of Jericho. We’d talk about hidden

twists and plots and dialog, hobbled

horses lipping grain from hands. We’d tell

secrets about who fucks whom and for how

much money. At two AM, we’d say farewell.

I’d pay the tab. I’d mingle, flirt, allow

a sleazy drunk to take me home, pretend

that everything he did to me felt good. 

T. R. Poulson, a University of Nevada alum and proud Wolf Pack fan, lives in San Mateo, California.  Her work has appeared in various journals, including Rattle, Mezzo Cammin, Booth, Aethlon: The Journal of Sport Literature, and previously in The New Verse News.  She supports her poetry habit by working as a UPS driver.

AIR QUALITY INDEX: 519

by Devon Balwit

SEATTLE, WA - SEPTEMBER 12: A man wearing a mask walks along Kerry Park as smoke from wildfires fills the air on September 12, 2020 in Seattle, Washington. According to the National Weather Service, the air quality in Seattle remained at "unhealthy" levels Saturday after a large smoke cloud from wildfires on the West Coast settled over the area. (Photo by Lindsey Wasson/Getty Images via Seattle PI)

Take a deep breath, the meditation app advises—
I breathe in. I only cough a little.
I can’t see my chickens although I know they’re there.
The redwood’s ghostly one house over.

I breathe in. I only cough a little.
The front door gaps. We keep meaning to fix it.
The redwood’s ghostly one house over.
My usual view is lost to fog.

The front door gaps. We keep meaning to fix it.
Tendrils seep in, the smell of burning.
My usual view is lost to fog.
It’s like London in 1952.

Tendrils seep in, the smell of burning.
I wear a headlamp when I walk the dog.
It’s like London in 1952.
Thousands died. I don’t want to.

I wear a headlamp when I walk the dog.
I pray the coming rain will make a difference.
Thousands died. I don’t want to.
I worry for the mailman, the UPS lady with her dog biscuits.

I pray the coming rain will make a difference.
So many acres are aflame. The firefighters can’t be everywhere.
I worry for the mailman, the UPS lady with her dog biscuits.
The hummingbirds’ wings whisk smoke.

Too many acres are aflame. The firefighters can’t be everywhere.
I can’t see my chickens although I know they’re there.
The hummingbirds’ wings whisk smoke.
Take a deep breath, the meditation app advises—

When not teaching, Devon Balwit chases chickens in the Pacific Northwest. She has two collections forthcoming: Rubbing Shoulders with the Greats [Seven Kitchens Press, 2020] and Dog-Walking in the Shadow of Pyongyang [Nixes Mate Books, 2020]. 

TWENTY QUESTIONS: THE AMAZON DRONE

by Earl J. Wilcox

Is it bigger than a bread box?
Animal, mineral, or vegetable?
Does it leap over tall buildings?
Will rain or sleet or gloom of night stop it?
Can I get two with egg rolls?
Is there an extra shipping charge?
Does it know I live in Mom’s basement?
Can I still have my copy of Playboy delivered here?
Will it bring me ice cream in July?
Can it find me in North Dakota—or Timbuktu?
How much should I tip it?
Where will it sleep at night after a hard day?
Can it ring my door bell?
Will a flock of birds threaten it?
Will it scare my cat?
Can I kill it with my BB gun?
What will happen to my UPS guy?
Does it have gender?
Will there be a graveyard for defunct drones?
Is this the way the world ends?


Earl J. Wilcox writes about aging, baseball, literary icons, politics, and southern culture. His work appears in more than two dozen journals; he is a regular contributor to TheNew Verse News. More of Earl's poetry appears at his blog, Writing by Earl.