Poetry & Prose


it’s late and dark

when i pull into

Exasperation Station;

i’d almost turned back because

the wells seemed all

run-dry and,

as usual, no one

was at my service tonight.


so i keep on

along the faded road,

named after


that smells like summer,

but only at the times

that it was quiet and alone.


those were the times

that i would sit

in Vanity

and refuse to take off my makeup,

because the night felt young

and i

did not.


that was before

i’d stopped thinking

that I could know

all there is

to know


just like


i had known

since fresh forever,

that the street around the bend

was E. North Street

over the bridge

to the market,


but now i know

that it is not what it once was,

and i take the long way home

even so,

even though it really isn’t summer


and i know it’s a little crazy of me

to be thinking backwards

like that,


and i get lost

of course,

too distracted,

glancing this way and that

and knowing full well

that i’m only delaying my advances;


two steps forward,

one step



but at least i’m finally

fueled up,

so there’s that,

and it isn’t summer but

the clocks are falling

back, into place and healing

all wounds,

neosporin-slick, and


i come back and

the house is full

of love behind locked doors,

but that’s okay,

because i’m also setting my sights


and my clocks as well,

as a matter of fact—


and that,

I guess,

is progress.





Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *