Poetry By Zachary C. Guerra

Sean Benham CC




Morning. Hilton Garden Inn, I-69 and Jefferson Boulevard


In a strip, under a whole mess of blue fluff
there’s a door-crack of Saturday Morning light 
looking at me, while I stand hands full.

I am predisposed to believe in it.
That nowhere else can  it look this good.

Over the Wingate exit, up to Lansing:
the clouds are drapes stapled tight
over December plucked trees.

The cellophane is peeling off an Arby’s sign.
And as a sign too, it’s faded and cast
into that wide orange-pinky way.

I’m looking up and signaling:
maybe wind, maybe rain.

​

Zachary C. Guerra is a writer. He was published in Exposition Review. He is a best of the net nominee.


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