Poetry:
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RECESSIONAL
The crowded
elevator disappeared
between floors.
Pedestrians stood
weeping at the crosswalk.
She still loves you,
said the old man
walking a dog on a rope.
I smelled the salt
of the nearby tears.
It took me two
or three matches
before the light
would stay lit.
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YELLOW
1
Everybody’s
morning
is different.
A seagull
doesn’t know
that it’s
a seagull,
only we
know that
and that its lidless
yellow eyes
are empty.
2
Only in old movies
do lovers escape
on an ice floe.
Your mind
whispers
to you
something
I can’t hear.
Later,
you’ll use
the worn
rubber nub
of a yellow
no. 2 pencil
to erase what
you’ve just
written.
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REMEMBER THE ALAMO
The farts of a hopped-up Mustang echo down the street. Sam Houston could use a shot of mescal right about now. His hand trembles like a courier with urgent news. He doesn’t wish to discuss anymore the imposed simplicity of his early work. Agents in belted raincoats watch the border from nearby doorways. Although the sun is out, the nine-spotted ladybug crosses undetected.
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Howie Good is the author of a full-length poetry collection, Lovesick, and 21 print and digital poetry chapbooks. With Dale Wisely, he is the co-founder of White Knuckle Press, www.whiteknucklepress.com
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