By Howie Good
85 words
When the tree, in high dudgeon, suddenly pushes through the polished wood floor, and the congregation of small scared birds disbands in confusion, when the deaf despise the hearing, and the night janitor at the Museum of Mad Ideas wipes with special care the shatterproof glass under which Hitler’s voice rages, time’s up, and I shed my coat on the ground and lie down beside her, believing, as we curl gratefully into each other, what is real is whatever is faded, or broken, or falling.
Howie Good, a journalism professor at the State University of New York at New Paltz, is the author of six poetry chapbooks, including the e-book, Police and Questions (Right Hand Pointing, 2008), available free at http://www.righthandpointing.com/howiegood/
12.23.2008
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