a poem by John Leonard

Holdthe phone. Who took the Reddi-whip and paint cans?

Someof those fish were glowing and I forgot to call you about it.

Maybethere’s a jar of Grey Poupon we could bring to the potluck?

Oldmen on the train singing; “Oh Sammy, the hills of Ireland don’twant you no more.”

Everythingsurvived the fire except your Keurig…a dark new dynasty.

Apatch of concrete was soaked and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

Sometimesyou’ll just be smoking alone and pacing. We know.

Attwenty-one, Devon was flushed with summer. She sold

aquart of rum to a girl who ended up killing a family of raccoons withher car.

Those“sleepless nights”, when the moon called my sister forty times…

Ithought I asked you to stop sending me Vicodin samples?Alarming.

Maybethe moss stayed in the forest for a reason. Maybe is always maybe.

Thecoffee shop down the street—Canadian quarters and mixed reviews.

Dust(which is also part of nature) swept itself under your bed and diedthere.

Holdthe phone, the moon is calling again. I’m all out of siblings andblue prints.

Makinga trip to the market, Andrew talked himself into top-shelf powderedginger.

The man behind the register sucked in his final breath, right before he flew to Spain.

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