by R.T. Castleberry
As the sun recedes,
ranges long across grassy median,
daylight’s outline sheds definition,
snarls like snapped phone lines.
A chemical musk of herbicide and fertilizer
floats the wet ground.
People draw closer to their homes,
halogen’s fierce light flaring behind falling curtains.
Men and women shed their work skins
for Indian gin, video bondage,
unease around the dinner table.
I don’t remember happiness.
I remember struggle:
tents on fire in Homestead Park,
beds without sheets, the beggar’s canto.
This is a border ward—
near the harbor, near an artist’s hostel.
Asian tailors, convenience stores, coffeehouses
fringe the nearby streets.
A cop ends his shift, furtive as a burglar.
Runner’s colors flash a track
beneath construction crane and security wire.
I enjoy the daze of my neighbors,
their possibilities blank as stretched canvas.
My bookcases are filled
with biographies of willful musicians,
anthologies of Absurdist theology,
volumes that chart the course of coincidence.
An egoist’s ephemera lays heaped on a table:
temper stick, coup stick, Monte Carlo dice.
Photos from four lovers are framed
in key corners of the house.
At my desk, a PC screensaver rolls and spirals,
a Nikon N60 sits by the scanner.
Through the upstairs windows
I can feel the light of a dingy silver moon
as it rises nightly from the mercury waves.
Summer is an empty menace.
Thunder rolls. The rain passes.
[Featured]Digital Art Image Credit: Moon Shadow by J. A. Spahr-Summers. ©Copyright 2015, Jeffrey A. Spahr-Summers
Snapping Twig – Spring – 2015
Vol: Feb 2015 thru Apr 2015