Poem by Howie Good
Photo by Kees Terberg

Tout Suite

I find the spoon my roommate stole from the college cafeteria. The handle has been bent, the bottom scorched. I’m seventeen. There are only ever short pauses in the incoherent rage of the night surf at Dead Horse Bay.
I wish I could identify the flowers by name. Some are shaped like the pointy hats of clowns, some like the dwarfs in fairy tales. Some remind me of Inca cities of gold, some of old young men. Some are the color of a bloodstained uniform, some of a case of rabies caused by a performing dog’s bite. The closer I get, the louder the garden teems with revolutions and beheadings.

I study my reflection in the window of the butcher. The trains that leave the city empty return empty as well. Does the sound of sobbing mean what I think it does? People who were born here exchange knowing glances. Tomorrow’s paper may carry news of a terrible accident – night, and rain, and lovers blowing smoke rings into the dark. 

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