Issue Three – Poetry

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

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

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.