Clear Days

Midnight, and I stare

                                    at an empty tin of tobaccoless pouches,

a paperback on the science of adult attachment

                                    I’m noncommittal about. Shame returns

as if by the open window,

                                    like a naked crab

scuttling around for a carapace—

                                    armor against the April chill that lingers

like a cloud of vapor.

                                    Where do they go, those few clear days?

William G. Gillespie lives and writes in Brooklyn. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Boats Against the Current, Red Eft Review, Olney Magazine, and The Drunken Canal.

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