Chris Young


Still everything around me. The train
behind the house. The neighborhood strangely quiet.
Nobody mowing their lawn.

The sun still bold and up. And I am focused
on nothing in particular, but focused.
My license is up to date. I have car insurance.
Tomorrow I will have my tags
good to go, and I will
clean the house.

No Miles Davis blowing through. Linda's notes
without love before her name. The only sound, a dog
somewhere down the street, breathing
hard against a fence, pacing for a way
through, a way out.

I am thinking. And I keep
cutting a little bit more of my hair.

Here 18 days,
and I haven't unpacked a sock.
Thinking, and there is still so much day left.

Now a plane. I am dreaming about
taking a nap. I am dreaming about a woman
I think I know. My clothes are coming off
a piece at a time. 4:10, a shirt. 4:22, a sock.
It's almost time to go,

and there's no one to notice
whether the shower is hot,
whether the cats are in,
whether I am loving anything back,
returning a mouth
for an arm, a kiss for nothing.

Location: Eugene, Oregon
Publications: Samsara Quarterly, Stirring, Taint Magazine, Eclectica, DMQ Review, MiPo, Wind, etc.

Current | Previous    Submit | Editors    Join | Donate    Links | Contact

Sundress Publications