Waiting for You
— Dean Smith
Gritty red brick row house
outskirts of Baltimore
circa the second coming,
I’ll look through the stained glass between us
while my victrola scratches “Exile on Main Street.”
Saturday morning around my way
children tear down the alley,
a lewd cacophony smeared
with a mix of dirt, ice cream.
Mamas spend the day in curlers
watching Bowling for Dollars.
Obsolete papas scrape mustard
from their backfins, over cases
of National Bohemian.
Working the night shift on a loading dock
with a forklift full of broken hearts,
space on my arm for a flamingo tatoo,
I’ll wait until you grace these marble steps.
On a Footnote in Plato’s Symposium
— Sarah Hannah
I suppose we’re mad for loving footnotes–
The promise stowed in a tiny number
Proudly flagging the quotation
“to lay up glory immortal forever”–
And In the drive past text to precipice,
We plummeted past pulp and typeface,
Seeking a source, a proprietor at bottom,
But instead found only “A line of poetry
Of unknown origin,” and in chagrin
Convinced ourselves we knew–
At least that it was human, and didn’t someone
Of that fellow race say something once
About dust, vis a vis issuance and return–
But when, exactly, where? And that chap gone
Unnamed as well, laid up forever
In his own annotation; we sought him
At that shore, below the legible horizon;
We dug through cool leave of like color,
And of nothing found we knew a bit more.
We Were The 11 O’clock News
— Richard Brautigan
we were the 11 o’clock news
because while the rest of the world
was going to hell we made love
image: Jerry Bywaters, Oil Field Girls, 1940
* Contributor Andy Fox has worked as a private investigator and a bartender. He’s also edited a book of poetry and plays in the D.C. band Nice Breeze. He has published The Dust Congresssince November 2002.
