Issue Thirty-Four - Summer 2019


By Chet Corey

I walk around the living room
subvocalizing — poem composing.

My wife enters, folded laundry
in her arms. “Talking to yourself,”

she says. “You’re a lonely woman,”
I say, “taken to hearing voices.”

“God knows when you’re lying,”
she says, and heads downstairs

to wash another soiled load,
and I’m left to listen for another line —

to hear that other voice,
the one she said she’d overheard.

Copyright 2019 Corey