Author: David Wright

SOAPY mop across the tile,
BROOM the boards of floor,
MISSY didn’t shut the door:
OVINE spree left, well, a pile.

CRUEL does the sun beat down on desert sand.
TRUNK of stone, legless, headless–giant–stands,
SUITE of servant figures small and toppled round.
ALLOT him but little thought: he’s also in the ground.

IDEAL winter Saturday: spent home, warm, listening to
CHESS records, Etta James perhaps.
SHADY spot in summer is the inverse for comfort, but in winter it’s
SHAWL wrapped and cozy, with a soundtrack from yesteryear.

STAIN from vomit at the corner is
PALER today, with sky brighter.
DRIER forecast, too. Yet:
BOBBY knows there’ll be another wet night when it all kicks off.

RADIO still has power in the skyscraper basement,
BURST of squeals sometimes breaks the static.
TOUCH of surfaces grimes fingers, no cleaning for years.
CREAK of anything here makes you pray it’s only a rat.

SPORE, borne millennia through ether, lands on planet.
DEITY has deeper purpose, but eye sees only germination,
MANGA frame’s worth of an alien species uncoiling,
SNOOP all you like: purpose is only for spirit to see.

SLIMY detritus strewn about,
TUNIC more than mussed,
TUMOR excised. Vet grimly satisfied.
STRAW on floor much the worse for wear.

KNOLL. Lying in the shrubs, waiting,
STEELing for steal to go down, once
GLOOM has deepened to thwart watching eyes.
FELON to be? Yes. What they have on him outweighs.