9/26/2020 Poetry by M.S. Evans a.has CC Secondhand Anniversary My husband arrived JFK, SeaTac. One broken suitcase; a wild wheel resisted. He fought it uphill to the room I rented. Borrowed bed, dusty afghan. No babies wanted. Our son swaddled in crepe paper privacy. Years later, everything still inadequate, threadbare, busted. Oh, love, you shoulda’ listened to that one wild wheel. Crew Change I kept watch as my friends slept, tucked in thin evergreen along the tracks. Their sleeping bags rising with each breath; dark nylon cocoons. No sign of The Bull. I listened for the train to stir: the popping, excitable brakes, shouts of workers preparing. Eager for release, the engines twitching, I woke my friends. It’s time. M.S. Evans is a writer and visual artist. Originally from Seattle, she currently lives in Butte, Montana. Her work has previously appeared in Anti-Heroin Chic, as well as Black Bough Poetry, Ice Floe, The Daily Drunk, Stone of Madness Press, Versification, and Re-Side. Twitter: @SeaNettleInk Instagram: @permacrust Comments are closed.
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