Febrile, it is a wraith
pecking like a pair of doves,
creaky as the lone
Antarctic ice sheet,
3 P.M. sun slanted down
dog-tired time.
Steadfast, I trundle
over the chipped concrete walk
beneath a cottonwood’s yellow
leaves held by the bright
light. Smart children rush
through the school gate.
My smile says its echoes
are curveballs thrown
by the real.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 16, Issue 4.
See all items about Michael G. Smith