Sorting through an unmarried aunt’s things after she passed away, I started to see how unimportant everything is. One talkative lawyer attracted others like him. A sculptor carved the scene on a granite gravestone. Shortly afterwards, I moved to Florida to escape winter. I slippe in without the dogs going crazy. Life there felt a lot like life elsewhere – hours of boredom punctuated by moments of terror. If you listened, you could hear somber water flowing. I sat on the bed listening until my clothes were just rags.
Me and the Village
The village was built mainly of wood. It was always burning down. I hadn’t felt safe there for a long, long time. Now the landlord had sold my few sticks of furniture while I was out getting mugged. I rolled my coat into a ball just to have a place to sit. My options were pitifully limited: run, hide, or drink. I stared across the room at the empty space on the wall where a framed print (Chagall’s “The Birthday”) used to hang. The emptiness glowed in the growing gloom like a nightingale with a toothache.
Plans for Departure
This feels like the worst place one could possibly be. I’m leaving for. . . I don’t know where. Somewhere bodies behave simultaneously as particle and wave. You can come. There won’t be roads and bridges made of spider silk or lakes whose colors pulsate to the iridescent dreams of sleeping fish, but only you and me and empty space that longs to be touched.
©2021 Howie Good All rights reserved.
Howie Good is the author of more than a dozen poetry collections, including Stick Figure Opera (Cajun Mutt Press), The Death Row Shuffle (Finishing Line Press), The Trouble with Being Born (Ethel Micro Press), and Gunmetal Sky (Thirty West Publishing).