andy macera




There is little else left to do
walking a red track
white lane lines blue numbers

a barberís pole on Main Street
the chair pumped higher
laughing: eye jelly jiggling
the world a rollercoaster
the smell of shaving cream and talcum powder
a gumball machine
colorful thoughts in a glass head

a girl is running: passing him
he resists the need to turn more fully to see her
he is too old to gather tinder

she moves like summer

staring up from the grass
the vapor trail of jets
lightening bolts frozen in the sky
his mind a shifting cloud: a harpooned whale
a spear in a woolly mammoth

every puddle is a galaxy
drop of rain circle of years
an instant star surrounded by a solitary orbit
the blink of an eye

his umbrella is a yellow flower

he likes the sound of her approaching
the heavy breathing
the splash of shoes

when she disappears around a curve
he aches to hold on to her long pony tail
as if she were a named comet

he will not return

night keeps its promise
light: embers huddled on the horizon

the track is a wound that wonít heal.

Andy Macera is the recipient of awards from Plainsongs, Mad Poets Review and Philadelphia Poets. His work has also appeared in Pearl, Mudfish, Slant, Freefall, Ibbetson Street , The Orange Room Review and other journals. He lives in West Chester, PA.


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