A Poem By Nate Pritts

by Mark Bibbins, Editor

THIS IS PROBABLY THE END

Outside they’re yelling about the secret weapon.
But I can still judge the season
by the unhidden dandelions all over the front yard.

Also the tricycles, which is to say
that I face the future ludicrous & unafraid.
Once I occupied a picnic table for a whole afternoon

& people came by, asked if it was okay to sit down.
My responses varied with the color of their eyes,
which is different than yesterday at the coffee shop

where I spent all my energy trying to convince you to sit
anywhere else. Not right next to me. Not
putting your adult espionage thriller on the table

where my drink goes. Outside, they’re always yelling
about the secret weapon.
I folded my old tattersall shirt & put it in a box.

The sleeves were fraying & I was embarrassed
to part with it. We give up on worn out things
when instead we should celebrate & covet their injuries.

I shoved sadness deep into my ears to drown out
the sizzling of dinner. I spent forty minutes
stacking books on the new bookshelf & each volume

generated such an impressive floral infused gust,
I had to wonder about the previous owner. I had to wonder
about the Nate Pritts from fifteen years ago,

the one who bought a bottle of his ex-girlfriend’s perfume
just to have it in case all beauty suddenly ceased.
It did. Then it started again

Nate Pritts is the author of five books of poetry, most recently Sweet Nothing. He is the founder & principal editor of H_NGM_N, an online journal & small press.

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You may contact the editor at [email protected].