Bukowski Bench to Bed
Edward Burke
He parkt his bones atop some city’s bench,
a sport for cats and grave somnambulists,
his empty bottles tuckt into the grass,
his sleep adjusted to his latitude.
Montag
Larry Narron
instead of my heart, a fire
salamander crawls
on my sleeve.
My Mother
Harriet Weaver
is the coffee still in the microwave
and the note apologizing to the school.
She is Chef Boyardee, Hungry Man,
and a cheap homecoming dress.
Take me to the Water
B.B. Garin
It was hot and we didn’t know where we were going. Out the highway, past the scrapyard, mangled cars glinting in the sun. Past the billboards for personal injury lawyers and Jesus. Past the exit for the Reservation and the red-faced power plant. We meandered down the escarpment, through a quaint old town to the edge of the gorge, following the river though we couldn’t see it yet.
That felt right. We were always drawn to the water.
