A Poem By Robert Ostrom
by Mark Bibbins, Editor
The Driver Says
Like eight darlings picking corn from
their teeth. I know how this looks. Like
Portuguese churches on the moon, the strong
arm of a place where space moves behind
time and a box of old Playboys is just how
it feels. Getting knocked down by the white
of a callery pear, mistaking London planes
for sycamores. When you have been ruined
by small events, waking up always feels
like walking alone in a woods; there will be
no mark from a glass of cold water on your
bedside table and the sounds through an open
window (crickets, a highway) will frame how
little I care for you. I carry you as if you were
my heart like a bag of honey.
Robert Ostrom is the author of The Youngest Butcher in Illinois. He lives in Queens.
It is so nice out today that you should print a bunch of poems and take them outside with you and read them in the sunshine. You’ll find plenty here. You may contact the editor at [email protected].