They do so quicken
to warn don’t they?
‘specially those that
have never dared or
worse, but sadly, onced.
Their protests hatched in
close spun spinster webs
who cry out not to reach for
the light because, oh dear!
Look at last time!
And if they had their
weary way hearts would
be cordoned off by
orange traffic cones and
a lone stalwart guard
motioning passersby to
move along now folks,
move along now,
nothing to see here.
Lindsay McLeod trips over the horizon every morning. His poetry has recently found homes in FIREFLY, THE FAT DAMSEL, BURNINGWORD, FIVE2ONE, MAD SWIRL, SICK LIT, LEAVES OF INK, ODDBALL, WORDS DANCE, QUAIL BELL, CORVUS, FOLIATE OAK, BIRD'S THUMB, FINE FLU, DASH, LITERARY NEST and AMARYLLIS. He currently writes on the sandy Southern edge of the world, where he watches the sea and the sky wrestle for supremacy at his letterbox. He prefers to support the underdog. It is presently an each way bet.
A conveyor belt delivers mutton and fowl.
Hot meringues suffer and collapse
under my ruthless fork.
His breath tripped over words stuck between his teeth
and tongue as sinewy shoulders curved.
The child stood, small, shivering in her tattered brown coat,
a dented, scuffed brown suitcase gripped in her hand.
mushrooms, beets, carrots, cabbage,
uncle’s ashen face.
Light drips on the handle of our cups.
Mine is dark blue, hand
Crafted by a lady I met
Once, in Kentucky. It’s filled
With Camomile tea. No sugar.
You sometimes wonder about
Pangea, the supercontinent
that existed 300 million years
I miss driving with you at
night, sometime past safe,
our lips still wet with
When he had finished writing, and crossing out
and standing and rewriting, and looking
out his window, and feeling the sun
I stood and watched you sleeping, had
stood there watching for nearly five minutes in
the shadow of the
hallway for nearly five minutes of circus
time before I dropped your purse on the chair, quiet as death
If I could, I’d use
my recently purchased cell phone
to call the pay phone outside
the community swimming pool
in Fairview Park, Normal, Illinois,
that summer when I was eleven,
and the country 200.
It was the night we were told we couldn’t pretend we were Catholic.
The priest turned only toward you and said, “It’s between you and God.”
And you cried.