Post Road Magazine #1


Mark Bibbins
You have given up on your hands.
Gone are the days of cupping,
gone are the nights of wringing.
The era of holding has passed.
What you take with you:
what fits in your mouth.                             
                                      O, the treats.
Going down,
the stairwell smells of toothpaste—
someone is planning ahead.
                          You weren't
trying to build something
lovely but the words were there
                              and not there.
What else could we do
but scare you away?
             Fillings falter.
             Radios rebel.
What you have left us:
the voices of taxi dispatchers
            bouncing off the night.
By The Time
                Boys     there are no rocks
around here for miles      so
                     where did you get them?
                                 What becomes a city
     without trees?
     But that's not the answer.
Sure    I could rely on locks
                          in a fire.      Sure.
      I could need someone else     
so badly        as to resort to words
      like artifice and scrim
                though rain would be quick     to stop me.
                                                   What it's good for.
God damn it
     I was once a boy too                        and flew
around blue spruces
in the yard
believing I could.
                                     That was me        a lowercase    "t."
                          Don't refute        that letters are weightless
Until written down        and even then
                          could float.
Dust does.         Try it.        I dare you.    Quick--
What color is the sky—--

 Copyright © 2018 | Post Road Magazine | All Rights Reserved