Poem of the Month
The Pawn is always a pawn, a sucker the dealer spots
a mile away, a collector of dreams with pockets full of holes.
Inside the frame, two angels stand alone,
point their gaze to the distance of mauve and blue,
attuned to something not yet revealed,
an impulse finding shape in the swirl of clouds.
Their season’s over
and now they’re drunk
and nasty, banging at
He was my wife’s uncle,
diplomas from schools
most couldn’t get in to.
Henry was handsome, tanned
and newly rich. He liked fine cigars
and the shine of other men’s wives.