Underneath the Eaves
Tangled in telephone wires, even the gray
beards of moss seem bored. The tinsel
gears grind to a halt—
That electric murmur,
is that the generator? Or the howl
of this town folding
inward? Someone is filling
their car with carbon monoxide.
Percocets gush from the cracks
of front doors.
Not even the gardenias can sober
this sodden block. Not even the wisteria
can squeeze out the loneliness hiding
underneath the eaves.
In my backyard there is one light,
glowing, just enough to see bones
nearly swallowed by the soil.
Ryan Bollenbach lives, writes, and noodles on his guitar in Tampa, Florida. He is a fan of poetical mysticism and cinematic minimalism. His poetry can be read at Prick of the Spindle, and is forthcoming in Brevity Poetry Review. His editorial work can be read at www.sweetlit.com.