THE GULF OF AMERICA, NÉE MEXICO

by Susan Ayres

The U.S. Department of the Interior announced on Friday that they will implement President Trump’s name change for the Gulf Coast.(wjhg)

 

                        I laugh at what you call dissolution,

                        And I know the amplitude of time.

                                                            —Walt Whitman

 

And yet she too is dissolved in a sea

of fears and worries. Will the rocks smash

her if the saltwater lets her go? In the muted

submersion there’s an isolation. The air

 

bubbles rise in a tickle. Small fish nibble

her toes. It’s not like she’s fallen to pieces.

She’s just lost her reason, her name.

She’s the brain mush and muscle mash

 

of dark swirls in the clear green water,

the murky way men possess women. Her particles

bond to the tickles. The waves push her

forward with the incoming tide. She laughs

 

at what they call dissolution. Floating

face down she knows the amplitude of time.

Susan Ayres is the author of Walk Like the Bird Flies (Finishing Line, 2023) and Red Cardinal, White Snow (Main Street Rag, 2024). Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and her poems and translations have appeared in numerous journals. She studied Spanish in Cuernavaca, Mexico, practiced karate for nine years with her son, and now spends time in Texas writing, collaging, teaching, and learning tai chi.

FROM NOW UNTIL NOVEMBER

by Thomas J. Erickson

“Towering Pine” by Alan Li

There are decades where nothing happens

and there are weeks where decades happen.

                                                    —Lenin

Out near the trout stream,

there is “the Pine Tree”

a towering white pine that somehow

escaped the blade of the lumberjack.

It was a signpost and a beacon

and we could see it from anywhere

while we walked across the plains to fish there

—me, Joe and Dad and Ed

until the dusk called us home for blueberry pie

and trout and potatoes fried in lard.

That was decades ago. Earlier this summer,

the tree started to fall. 

I was afraid it would be down

in a matter of weeks.

Today, though, the tree is still there. By November,

we might still be able to see it on the horizon.

Thomas J. Erickson is an attorney in Milwaukee where he is a member of the Hartford Avenue Poets. He likes to sit in court and write poetry before his cases are called.  His latest poetry book is Cutting the Dusk in Half (Bent Paddle Press, 2022).

TO A CHORUS OF TEARS

by tom bauer

It seems inevitable his eyes would look like that
singing that song, effulgent with yearning
for things lost, as the river weaves towards
the past. Reminds me of cartoon eyebrows,
pointed in an inverted ‘V’, like a tent,
anguished peaks over wounded disks, singing
what might be the saddest song ever made.

An invisible step leads to this next question,
on foot, an actual physical object
moving in space, in the moment of space,
not merely that moment witnessed onscreen,
a moment now in the past, outside this one,
this moment here with the keyboard, the echo,
the cat on the radiator nesting his head.

Are we free? As time waves out, are we free?
Free of the pain, the breath, the trees and light?
For it seems we are not free on earth, to choose
to run or fight, to give or take, we are
in moments welded to our choices,
fixed outside freedom, choosing what we must.

So are we free, then, when we die? Is that it?

tom bauer lives in montreal with his sons and plays boardgames.

SABBATH

by Chris Reed

The deepening fall stalls my step,
invites a seasonal sabbath,
a slowing of time, luring me
to witness the dying world,
the retreat of light, warmth, color,
a trail of endings,
this yearly dress rehearsal.

Here is the world. 
Leaves, red-rimmed, rustle silently
like yesterday’s still photos from Gaza,
Israel, Ukraine, blood-tinged. 
The deck is wet from recent rain,
as water runs out in war-torn lands,
runs out for all, as rivers 
and aquifers shrink, while torrents
wash cities into the sea.

A rest. A time away from politics,
like leaving the red-faced relatives,
arguing in the sunroom, laced
with whisky fumes, surrounded
by blue-blossomed African violets.
I’d sneak into the kitchen 
filled with the smells and warmth 
of my grandmother’s baking bread
as she hugged me and nodded,
a knowing smile on her face.

Was it in Coetzee, I read that politics
is just a form we use for the hate
and frustration already there?
Was it in Miller, I read that when
as children, love is denied, politics
and how we treat our own children,
are where we fine-tune our cruelty?

The leaves turn paler, start to yellow,
the sky, a cleaner blue after the rains.
Sabbath is about sitting with gratitude,
sitting with possibilities,
sitting with some kind of god, 
some kind of love.
I wait.


Author’s Note: The seed for this poem was this week's New York Times story about the Amazon River.


Chris Reed is a retired Unitarian minister. Her poems have recently been published in River Heron Review, The NewVerse News, and US1 Worksheets, among other journals.

DOES TIME HAVE COLOR TOO?

by L. Smith

Disgraced Minnesota police officer Kim Potter walked free from prison after serving just 16 months for shooting dead Daunte Wright when she mistook her gun for a Taser during a traffic stop. Potter, 50, was released from Minnesota Correctional Facility-Shakopee in the early hours of Monday morning to serve the remainder of her sentence on supervised release. —The Independent (UK), April 24, 2023

So, does time have color, too?

Why do they get less time for the same offense that, say, we might do?

Is their time more valuable than, say, mine?

I mean, ain’t we living on the same clock? Same timeline? Same century?

Maybe we need to leave the time up to the jury, because the judge is too easily nudged by emotion. Are you sentencing the crime, or are you sentencing the color? Are you sentencing the crime, or are you crying for a mother? Are you sentencing the crime, or are you sympathetic to the other?

 

Is one color more fragile than the other? You know the phrase, right? —"Don’t do the crime,

if you can’t do the time.” Does that not apply for every color?

What? Y’all think we got a time machine? Think time go by for us at warp speed?

Is time not supposed to affect the brother like it does the other?

Y’all don’t age the same, but them years don’t go by no faster for us.

We age on different scales, but them years go by the same. 

 

I thought time was about alignment, about the crime,

about time to match the crime—not the color. Not how sullen one is once seized.

But it seems the brother gets more time than the other because of his color.

Does color determine risk? After all, who has the means to take the most risk?

The brother? Or the other?

 

Or is it: don’t do the crime, unless you got the right color? 

I mean, can y’all meet us in today? Can we at least decide time like we living in the same decade?

Whose family will suffer most under the cloak of the time?

During the absences, the voids, the gaps, the setbacks brought on by the time? Whose family is already behind?

 

Why can’t white time and black time be on the same damn black line?

I didn’t know time had color, too.

I guess time, like fairness, are both abstract, are just a construct. 

Time being obstruct for the fair-skinned,

abundant for the brother, but absent, lightened, or lifted for the other.

Intangible for the other, hard-lived for the brother.

Time itself is colored obtuse.

Color makes time profuse.

For the colored, time is abused.

And in today, time is a noose.

I didn’t know time had color, too.

And since it does, why can’t our time have the color of you?

L. Smith, a New Orleans native, is a writer, multi-certified, English and master reading teacher, who has freelanced for local newspapers. Her poems “Black Man Running” and “Worse Than Rodney King” have also been published in The New Verse News. She has an anthology of poems and prose set to publish spring 2023 that her mother and daughter created space for her to write. She also has begun this blog for writer teachers.

A YEAR'S LAST FLIGHT

by David Chorlton

The waking skies of summer

opened like a hand of cards spread daily

when the white sun rose

and a cloud held Heaven’s fire close

to Earth while all was golden light behind

Four Peaks.

                     Each day

broke into song against a stage set brightly

for the doves and mockingbirds and

flickers who arrived without

a campaign slogan or

a lie. Pigeons flocked together for safety

while hawks and candidates

hunted alone through dry heat

and monsoons. Anniversaries flew by

with months sliding

down a rainbow to

                                   disappear the way

time does when it has used up

its energy and wants to sleep the winter sleep

that follows an election when all

that’s left are losers crying foul

and birds lost in migration

showing up at the most unlikely

destinations. There is one late rain

turning to mist

                            on the south side

of a desert mountain. And hummingbirds

for whom each day is much the same as

the one before it. They are driven

by their unending appetites

and swear allegiance to the sugar

hanging from the sky.

David Chorlton is a longtime resident of Phoenix with great affection for the desert. His newest book is Poetry Mountain published by Cholla Needles Arts and Literary Library in Joshua Tree, CA. 

ON ACRONYMS (G.O.A.T.) AND ACCOLADES (GREATNESS)

by Jen Schneider

I’ve always believed in the power (mostly potential) of greatness. Up and down streets of small-town USA. It’s the American way. From the East to the West. Up and down coasts. Across the boulevard. Behind boarded storefronts. Above tent cities and soaring skyscrapers. Gold rushes (and crushes) as believable as spinning compass dials. Proof in palms. Sweat both a track and a sweet tactic. Electricity both pushes and pulls. Magnetic magnanimity. All senses engaged. Eyes sparkle. All moves traced. Energy (& greatness) on display. 

Tonight, I witnessed it. The G.O.A.T. First-hand. On live TV (with an intermittent signal). From the irregularly regular comfort of a green corduroy couch. All limbs locked. All cushions plucked. Some patched. Others poked. Even the puppy ceased chewing (both cushions and bones) to watch (perhaps chase). Greatness a moving target. And a mobilizer. Time may tick (and trick) but greatness warms then lingers. In layers (six U.S. Open titles and tiers) and longing. Of myths and mothers. Of champions and messages that extend championship miles. Of catsuits and ankle-grazing boots. In smiles and original styles. Hi-tops and lo-cuts. Sequins and Lycra trims. Authentic and relentless. Shine and sheer. All dress coded. All rackets loaded. 

All the world’s a stage. Bounded of boundaries erased in thin air. Fans in stands. Teams behind the scenes. Youngsters with big dreams. Bottoms boosted by stacks of paper reams. Elders with small screens and oversized spectacles. Spectators (both in and of person) cup (and capture) promise in the palms of their hands and the sweetness of their gasps. Puffs of breath signal. Proof of behavior beyond all reasonable dreams. From hard courts to grass lots. From clay corners to concrete towers. From humble beginnings of seeds and sprouts. We’re only as strong as our supports. Even the always ready-for-sleep canine got caught up in the game. Foundations fuel fire. Balls of soft yellow fuzz inspire both chases and champions. Also companions. 

As the biggest names in sports flooded the airwaves, my husband pulled his racket from the attic. I considered my own tutu (long boxed). Grabbed Nikes, shorts, and night-lit keys. I laced, then tied my rubber-soled sneakers. His were a tad too tight (along with the shorts). Mine a tad too bright (neon green no longer felt right). Sparkle and lace always a fan. It was late but we made it a date. Leash on the dogs. Feet on pavement. Rackets in hand. We’ve never been dressed of accolades. Kool-Aids our beverage of choice. Tonight, we ran then hit then hollered. Rates (accuracy and time) no longer mattered. 

Greatness is gentle. A guide with nothing to hide. We were happy to be (beside and then on the court). There was no need to ace. No need to race. Greatness not only inspires it never tires. Age just as much as adage as a fuel for new stages. 

It’ll be a while, I think. To challenge the greatness, we saw on display. No desire to conform. Spectacular in a self-chosen uniform. Stats may stock and stack. Always at the ready. Some to be stored and others to react. Commentators eager to even all scores. Time is tricky. It passes in a blink. It’s the (even when fleeting and even when tried) American way. Tonight, I witnessed greatness. Under open air. Dances, daring, and destiny on magnificent display. 

Thank you, Serena. Your impact (and all you’ve made seen) will extend long and far beyond your effect. What I’ll remember most from my watch (and your reign) is your smile and your irrepressible passion for always, without fail, going the extra mile. Not to mention your incredible sense of fashion. You may not know our names, but your game inspires dreams beyond the threats of time and traditional means. Of G.O.A.T.s and accolades. Time and again—Greatness on display. 

Jen Schneider is an educator who lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Pennsylvania. Recent works include A Collection of Recollections, Invisible Ink, On Habits & Habitats, and Blindfolds, Bruises, and Breakups.

CHOICES: AN ABORTION SONNET

by Anne Graue

I sat muted in a waiting room, stared at mauve and teal

paintings framed in un-brilliance, the desk Formica. The phone

rang—no ring tones in ‘82—not quite silence, glances not too close—

I knew her—she went to my high school—we both waited.

 

When is a raven like a writing desk?

 

I hate riddles! They follow a maddening logic. The Mad

Hatter and March Hare sit at court, judging. The dormouse asks,

 

Would you like some more tea?

How can I have more when I haven't had any?

Rabbit's fur is softer than anything I’ve ever touched.

 

The act of choosing is easy, and there

in that room tears fell like a solution

and control. Recover, reset the clock.

 

I'm late! No, I got there just in time.

 

Anne Graue exercised her right to choose in 1982, a private decision that was right for her at the time. She is a poet who believes in personal choice and privacy and that there are times when some things need to be public. She wishes for freedom of choice for her daughters—for all daughters. 

DON'T TOUCH MY DREAMS

by George Salamon

Illustration by Beppe Giacobbe for Harper’s Magazine

"Can technology shape our dreams?" 

—Michael W. Clune, "Engineering our dreams," Harper's Magazine, April 2022

My dreams are true, because they occur,

they are false, because only I see them.

It's an awe-inspiring arrangement, it

is both darkness and light, it frustrates

and enlightens, it is a human thing.

The heart beats as we sleep, our

eyes write down the stuff of dreams,

dreams remain within and out of our

world.

Our soul is endowed with two eyes,

one watches the passing of hours on

the clock, the other sees through the

the borders of time, until watching

passes into seeing through, and the

dream endures within us.

I don't want technology to tamper with

this burden and gift.

George Salamon is not happy about what technology has done to "engineer" our engaging and communicating with each other and wants it to keep its metallic hands off our dreaming, the happy dreams and nightmares. 

ONCE UPON

a triptych for Ukraine, March 2022

by Lana Hechtman Ayers

Detail of the poster for the 2016 film.

I. Shush! Don’t Wake Her

 

See her now,

home from

the cancer ward,

in her own bed

in her own room,

curled around the fuzzy

brown teddy bear nearly

as big as she is at four,

fur of its right ear matted

down from sucking,

emerald neck ribbon frayed,

glossy hazel eyes shining

in the toadstool nightlight’s

amber glow. She sleeps atop the sky

blue coverlet hand embroidered

with sunflowers by her grandmother,

The white nightgown with flourishes

of willow leaves tangles around

her too-thin legs, and one chubby

thumb presses against her lips

that are as rosy as imported

cherries from her last birthday

celebration she dreams of

tasting again. From elsewhere

a clang wakes her and she

reaches for the waning

crescent moon that hangs

in the bedroom window

like one of her mother’s

dangly gold earrings

just as the bombs

begin to fall.

 

 

II. Once Upon a Time

 

Swallow the clatters of war tanks, bullet ratatat's, crashes of broken glass.

Hear to the red smoke as it shrieks down chimneys,

 

around drafty windows into the house, down the hall to the bedrooms.

Inhale the atonal black fire as it incinerates the fairy kingdoms of childhood to ash.

 

This is not the bedtime story any parent hopes to tell their children.

Look out your window.

 

If the night is clear and calm, or

if all that rains down from the sky is water,

 

ask yourself, how can I help parents in far off lands

find a happily ever after for their children

 

this one night

to the next?

 

 

III. Elegy for War

 

After the last bombs exploded,

silence deafened

the world for several decades.

People took to speaking

in gestures,

holding arms out in front

of themselves, wide open,

which led to stepping forward

into more hugs,

led to extravagant foraging

for wild berries.

Vehicles of insurgence

morphed into homes for bats

and rats and only grouchy bears

ever ventured near.

NATO transformed into

a travel agency,

with free week-night stays

across Greenwich Mean.

Everyone everywhere

shared recipes for soup.

Lana Hechtman Ayers has shepherded over eighty poetry collections into the world in her role as managing editor at three small presses. Her poems have appeared online at Rattle, Escape Into Life, Verse Daily, and The Poet’s Café, as well as in print journals and her nine published collections.

CONFIRMATION TIME

by Jane Patten

The process begins—

But confirmation

Will depend

Upon its closeness to the midterms 

Or what it costs to send

A moderate to the court,

Saturn lying opposite

The Sun or

The last of the Super Moon

Shining bright, 

Agreement from the Right

And well-laid plans

To obstruct and strike again.

After retiring and moving to Huntsville, Jane Patten decided to write about her adventures, including growing up in Delaware and her career as a teacher in rural Georgia. Her writings have been published in Out Loud HSV: A Year in Review anthologies, The New Verse News, Reckon Women, and Reckon Honey.

FOR JOAN DIDION WHO

by Mary K O'Melveny

Told it like it is    Like it was

  if we had been paying better attention

Made us see what she saw   and be grateful

 

Stared into storms  wearing night vision goggles

  in case we missed some essential point

Exposed each slant of light    tone of voice   shadowed figure

 

Crafted a perfect sentence   Drafted a fine line

Saw that a paragraph can hold more weight than gold

  if it opened our eyes wider   and we did not blink

 

Spoke with timbre of choruses and echoing canyons

 we could hear her whispers cutting through darkness

  in case we lost the soundtrack of our own lives

 

Understood more than most   Less is more

  there is little room for error   restraint can be operatic

   understatement can be perfect   is often preferable

 

Laid out the sorrowful news that we will not survive

  recast such tales as memoir   you always lose what you need

Told us don’t bother to weep    Timing is everything

Mary K O'Melveny is a recently retired labor rights attorney who lives in Washington DC and Woodstock NY.  Her work has appeared in various print and on-line journals. Her first poetry chapbook A Woman of a Certain Age is available from Finishing Line Press. Mary’s poetry collection Merging Star Hypotheses was published by Finishing Line Press in January, 2020.

BURROWING

by Farah Art Griffin

“Into the Void” by DINA D’ARGO, 56, SPRINGFIELD, TENN. Acrylic on canvas via The Washington Post. “‘Into the Void’ symbolizes stepping into the unknown — the idea of life ‘after the pandemic’ and the insecurity of not knowing what lies ahead.” 

still burrowing —

drowning in yesterday's time

past grips us in its palm

wounds

            still wet

            still dripping

memories

            still clear

            still swimming

cave of unforgotten sorrow —

echoes in the dark

Farah Art Griffin is a literary and visual artist. She holds an EdM in Arts in Education from Harvard University. Her work is forthcoming in The American Journal of Poetry.

EVEN THE DOG

by Barbara Loots

Three family members whose bodies were found in the living room of a Glenaire house over the summer all died of natural causes possibly related to the untimely  death of the home caretaker… The family dog was also found dead next to a toilet in the bathroom. —Kansas City STAR, September 21, 2021

No one knew it when the old man died.

The uncollected mail, unanswered phone,

untended grass.  Nobody notified

authorities.  He’d always coped alone

with caring for his sister and his mother,

dependent as the dog for food and drink

on one who didn’t want to be a bother

to friends or neighbors.  What are we to think

of this small tragedy?  Whom shall we curse?        

Who counts inconsequential lives like these,

as millions vanish from the universe

from hunger, guns, disaster, and disease?

Humanity has nothing new to learn.

When time has ended, still the stars will burn.

 

Barbara Loots wonders why we worry when we are all so small in the overall scheme of things.

HOPE

by Sandra Anfang

“Hope and Justice” by David Garibaldi

is not the thing with feathers bickering at the feeder

bullying the finches into flight

 

nor the Hallmark card, faded from decades of cliché

shoved in the back of the dollar store rack

 

Hope is not the white dove flying from the open hymnal

like a pop-up book, nor the blond god on 

 

nana’s closet door smiling from his ruby throne.

It’s not the inscription on the hand-drawn

 

sign buried in roses at the site of the latest

black man’s murder by the men in blue

 

nor the Christian Covid patient emoting from

his ICU bed, hoarding oxygen and prayers

 

while millions of deniers chorus no,

we won’t go to vaccine clinics.

 

Hope is not the promised land behind

a child’s eyes when she mouths on bended knee

 

bless mommy and daddy and

all the creatures in the sea.

 

Is hope the force that pulls us from our beds

when the world seems to have given up?

 

Is it the hands that brew the coffee, steep the tea

debate existence with our feline friends

 

hands that kindle the ritual of another day

as if our time were endless here.

 

Sandra Anfang is a poet, editor, poetry teacher, and visual artist. She’s the author of Looking Glass Heart and Road Worrier (Finishing Line Press, 2016 and 2018) and Xylem Highway (Main Street Rag, 2019) and the founder of Rivertown Poets in Petaluma, CA. Since Covid overtook our lives, she alternates between binging on statistics and walking and writing to allay her fears.

A YEAR IN

by Ilene Millman

Source: The New York Times, April 22, 2021

in a blue funk in    sunk in    a fly in amber   a pig in a poke

no walk in the park  this tempest in a teapot  this stitch in time

a brick in my hand    its foot in my door   like a fox in the henhouse

plugged in   unhugged in   in what, more than a year in?

a woman’s place in   in the homein    inthehome  a man’s place inthehome

inthehome the child   cuckoo in the nest   sitting in the catbird seat

couched in down in     drawn in and done in   carved in stone, no exit.

                   at this juncture/moment/ point in time

oh, to be out in left field    back in business     full swing in quest of

caught in the act of     caught up in        in cahoots with

to be in contact      in contact with     in good company

in touch     in touch with     walking out and about in

and in view of      knee deep in     teeth in    zhuzhed up laughing in the aisles

out in      all in   in awe of

 

 

In addition to writing poetry, Ilene Millman is a speech/language therapist currently volunteering as tutor, tutor trainer and assessor for her county Literacy Volunteers organization. Her poems have been published in a number of print journals including The Journal of New Jersey Poets, Nelle, Connecticut Review, Paterson Review, Passager,  The New Verse News, and anthologized in several volumes including the recently published Show Me Your Papers. She is an associate editor of The Sow’s Ear. Her first book of poetry, Adjust Speed to Weather, was published in 2018.  

HOW SUBTLY IT HAPPENED

by William Doreski

Secretly, I slip the daylight

moon into my pocket. A crowd

has formed. As I approach,

stainless things clatter. A cop

 

kneels on a neck. A sigh kites

into the trees and deflates.

The cop looks too dispassionate

for this lifetime. The man

 

on the ground no longer speaks.

The stainless things rain down

with naked blades twittering.

I ease the moon from my pocket

 

and compare it to the face

of the cop and of the man

he’s stifling. None of these three

expressions can tell me the time.

William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. He has taught at several colleges and universities. His most recent book of poetry is Mist in Their Eyes (2021). He has published three critical studies, including Robert Lowell’s Shifting Colors. His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in various journals.

PROCTORING THE ACT DURING A PANDEMIC

by Katie Chicquette

I steal moments

scribble on scraps

pretend I am writing

a reminder, recording

the test start-time,

but really it’s this

poem, stolen line by line

from the time we’ve stolen

from them as they fill

in bubbles with something

we pretend is truth

every bubble a stolen moment

to sleep     to heal         to skate

to work     to laugh       or cry

or eat        or breathe    to reboot

retreat       recreate    

every line of this poem 

a string or scrap

a robin steals 

to build a nest

Katie Chicquette is an alternative education teacher in Appleton, Wisconsin. Her work has appeared in various journals and local publications, including Poets Reading the News, Riggwelter, Bramble, Wallopzine, and Mothers Always Write. She’s fortunate to be surrounded by so many active poets in Wisconsin. Contact her at k.chicquette.adams<at>gmail.com. 

NAKED WOMAN CONFRONTS FEDERAL TROOPS

by Richard Garcia 

 I have been granted immunity from my dreams. Just let them try and testify against me. See how far they get on their own. My wife's tribe has begun their journey toward the promised trailer camp. Surely they shall be received and granted a plot of eminence. My wife has been sentenced to remain behind. We shall be protected by Sheela na gig, the naked goddess of history. Surely her maw of origin and its gnashing teeth will frighten away the storm troopers. Just a young woman really, sitting on the macadam with her arms and legs spread open in welcome, a garter snake wrapped around each wrist. But how the soldiers and their attached mob drop their banners in the clouds of teargas and run—they, who had cried out loud in the plaza, Long live death, Long live death! For creatures not accustomed to paradox, this was quite an achievement. Or would have been, if they knew what they were saying. No one knows who distributed the signs and banners. It was long ago. When these people could speak. When they could read, and listen and learn. When I began this testament I still thought it was tomorrow. But I know better now.

Richard Garcia's poetry books include The Other Odyssey from Dream Horse Press, The Chair from BOA, and Porridge from Press 53. His poems have appeared in many journals and anthologies. He has won a Pushcart prize and has been in Best American Poetry. He lives in Charleston, S.C.

LIFE IN THE PANDEMIC

by John Guzlowski

"The Persistence of Memory" (1931) by Salvador Dali

Things are slowing down.

It takes me 2 days to drink a cup of coffee,
A week to read a book,
A month to water the bushes we re-planted in June.

I move from one room to another
looking for shoes I haven’t worn in 2 months.
If I come across my car keys
I won’t recognize them.

I’ve stopped listening to the news
Stopped looking out the window
Stopped wondering what tomorrow
Will be like.

I started this poem in March
Maybe I’ll finish it
By Christmas.

John Guzlowski's poems and stories have appeared in North American Review, Ontario Review, Rattle, Atlanta Review, Nimrod, Crab Orchard Review, and Salon. Garrison Keillor read his poem “What My Father Believed” on his program The Writers Almanac.  Guzlowski's poems have won the Eric Hoffer/Montaigne Award for most thought provoking book of 2017, the Ben Franklin Poetry Award, and the $7500 Illinois Arts Award for Poetry.