On the floor, I stare at the ceiling
and think about what I’m missing
I focus on a smudge on the plaster
hoping it will reveal something to me
Unfinished things, half alive, rush through my mind
as I rifle through waste to stay above water
There are those willing to reconcile something ugly in themselves,
something that hates the world
You see it sometimes
In campaign speeches
and celebrations of death
In adult video comment sections
and in the shifting of blame
Their honesty makes me question its value
I am a good person, I say,
Afraid to live up to my own words
With the expectation to be who I claim to be
Blocking the way
There is always a gap
between who we think we are
and who we actually are
either we love ourselves too much
to see its distance
or not enough
-
-
At the Rite Aid checkout counter
I see a girl I sat next to in high school,
working as a cashier.
I am still at the Safeway, cleaning toilets
when this ice core is pulled from the sheet.
A record of my wants
With plenty of her own
The blood flees from my fingertips when I see
she's the only cashier in the store.
Maybe they’ll let me pay at the pharmacy,
but it is manned by a stupid “closed” sign
who does not understand my bind.
She hasn’t seen me yet
And what are the odds that she remembers me?
I would rather not find out.
“Have a nice day,” she says
As I exit through the main doors
with my back to her.
I can’t help but notice that it began the same way,
With fear disguised as a self-effacing routine
and I tell myself,
“Batteries were too expensive here anyway.”
I take the long way home
walking through a street
whose chain link fences and gravel lots
bring flashes of morning and after-school walks.
I stop in an empty church parking lot
and sit on a concrete block in the shade.
“I need to get out of this place,” I say,
remembering the warehouses and
taking the last break of the day outside.
Everyone huddled around the lit part of the parking lot like moths
and I laid down on a block of concrete,
the size of a kid’s mattress.
The night was so dark and I looked up at the stars,
and somehow, did not feel alone.
There was enough time for things to work themselves out.
Then, there was another feeling,
like the room was losing air
And I was staring at the wonderful night sky
with the thought in the back of my mind:
you only have 15 minutes
before you have to get back. -
Welcome to our new site dedicated to the poetry and short fiction of Anthony Holstun. Enjoy!
people who love the rain 