Comeona’ My Kitchen
By John Sangster
Push back the chrome dinette.
Slow dance on my linoleum
(clock radio knows the hits).
Tonight we cookin’.
Author Archive
Flat Poem
By John Sangster
This the
Flat-ass truth. Cruisin’ down
Flatbush when Boom!
Flat tire. Gets out, hears music—third-floor
Guitar Propped Upright in My Study Corner
By John Sangster
Mother’s violin waits in the attic,
wondering if it remembers how to sing.
Father’s songs (It meant he was happy)
hang in the air.
September
By John Sangster
Two crows steal apples from the orchard, black-eyed thieves shuttling their cargo (only what’s ripe) into the woods. Do I pick now or wait until the crop’s ready, risking a full-scale heist? Not just crows, either: coons, woodpeckers . . .
July
By John Sangster
Quiet on the deck this morning. Dry July, no dew on the table, the Straits glassy flat where local breezes brushstroke the surface a darker blue. Beyond, the Olympics hunker on the horizon, their peaks touched with white. A dog barks in the distance.