Night Sweats
Jewish graves desecrated. Dogs and other animals eating the corpses. Not everything is a metaphor for something else. I should have accumulated more in the way of wisdom by now. Instead, I have cancer markers and an unfilled prescription for oxy. The T-shirt I slept in last night is soaked through. It’s as if sometime before morning I was subjected to a secret process that wrung every last drop of moisture from the sodden cloud of my soul. There are borders but no boundaries. From beyond the window, I hear a nerve-shredding screech – crow on its black violin.
Howie Good’s newest poetry collection, Frowny Face, a mix of his prose poems and collages, is available from Redhawk Publications He co-edits the online journal UnLost, dedicated to found poetry.