Sundays v. Bruce. Queens, NY. August, 2023.
Sunday mornings I watch people at the gas station, off the highway,fill their cars on the way to the beach, or the game, or to whateverwholesome activity one shepherds their upstanding family.I wouldn’t know. The last time I went to the beach was 13 years ago.These days, if I’m lucky, I summer with a watermelon, without the seedsI still spit. My stomach stays in knots. It’s been three days since thathuge tree fell into the road. Blocking my path. This city has no urgency.Just wrap caution tape around it. Sure,I could have moved some branches out of that person’s driveway,but I decided not to—I walk to get my steps, all 12,000 of them.Every day, twice on Sundays. If I wanted to lift, I’d go…
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The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, March/April 2024