Been picking things up. I think I talk
too much. It bothers me. Born
this month. A long conversation
about loss of faith. Four geese fly
overhead. Phone call, my brother’s voice
seems different miles away. Why is that
cluster of working hours called a shift?
“I am bored”, written twice in chalk.
Hypnotic windshield wiper motion.
A tree sprawled across our street,
red flares burn on pavement.
Transcendence could be quiet
evaporation, so different from clamorous
rain. Leaves on carpet and beer bottle caps.
Shadows different in the camera flash.
Street lamp makes drops of water
on the car window look like stars.
Dilemmas of worth. The smell
of cold air and car exhaust reminds me
of Athens. I remember collecting things
when I was younger. The collections didn’t
come to anything. All the while, trains went by.
No matter where you slept, the rumble and
warning whistles sounded close enough.
[+]
David Russomano studied abroad in Greece and India before graduating in 2006 with a BA in creative writing from Messiah College. His poetry has been featured in the online publications Write from Wrong and This Great Society. It is also scheduled to appear in an upcoming issue of Women in REDzine. He currently teaches English in Turkey.
