qarrtsiluni

The librarian doesn’t care
as she once might have
that the books I’m returning
are missing some words.
Then I come to a forest,
dark, mossy clouds
like morbid thoughts
not even drugs can dispel.
A yellow cab, its engine running,
is always waiting at the curb
for a messiah to appear.
It’s the difference between
a democracy and a republic,
and though there’s no wind,
the puddles shiver.
My face reminds most people
of someone they knew long ago,
before the assassinations
and roadside bombings.
I stop to rest with the newborn
on the border of shrill gulls.

by Howie Good

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