after James Wright
When no one walks down them,
the roads cease being roads.
Silent skins cleansed by rain,
still rivers.
Occasional tires hiss,
their grooves catching loose grit
in slow turns out of sight.
Soon I’ll sweat more than my bottle,
I’ll wish I was a shadow,
cooling everything I touch
like a damp rag.
Even the trees beyond the fenceline
seem defeated, boughs bent,
slumped shoulders used to taking a beating.
The color green struggles
to stay in its skin,
the blue of the sky pressing down,
trying to mix like paint
or ink rubbed under the eyes.
I give the rabbits names
so I won’t eat them.
Beer tastes like beer,
a wetness that somehow dries,
like swallowing dragon tears.
I could starve
waiting for winter,
but the neighbors would smell me
before the crows ate my eyes.
Jay Sizemore hates when you call writing a hobby. His work has appeared here or there, mostly there. He’s had a lot of time to change his mind about everything. Currently, he lives in Nashville, TN, or does he even exist?
