Poetry | Issue 1 (April 2023)

This morning, I have an appointment

to get my oil changed—that is,

my Ford’s; tonight, a poetry reading

on Zoom, which feels like talking to myself

about a world that once existed.

Folks do that at my age: rant

with longing for the ugly past.

Mine will be on camera, the audience made of wind.

My car must be emptied of its history, too.

Between events, according to the Weather Service,

four to eight inches of snow will fall,

blinding drivers on the highway,

trapping lovers in their separate rooms.

Winter is late to begin like a football team

that can’t score in the opening quarters.

Here now, it bisects my day.

I love to watch snow falling,

tranquility reaching my bloodstream through one eye

while the other spasms in panic.

I was born into both my eyes,

green as summer grass & green as sickness.

Neither pushes forward. Neither also ever urges calm.