Issue Three – Poetry

More than living. You know, our life. The path is not straight.

Dishes are done and there is quiet.
Trading my phone for stillness, I
Pour half a glass of red in an old jam jar.

You should know this house is
my mother’s; be mad at her; maybe
visit her at Parkview Clinic

Unlike ripples fading away,
old dreams can’t be kept at bay.

There are poems I intend to write
That land on the purgatorial backburner
Never to be revisited
Because the poem was conceived
In a distinct and fleeting moment.