The Literary Magazine of the Osterhout Free Library
Attention
Janet Locke
The microwave clock
tells me I’m running late,
even though it runs slow.
So also say my cell phone,
my watch, and my wall clock.
A good friend was late for
everything, and she was perfect Continue reading “Janet Locke, Two Poems”
Early Spring
Tom Montag
The wind has
let down the sky.
Small birds fly
into afternoon.
We are leaving
winter behind.
The birds know it.
We know it.
All the green things
have been told, though
not all of them
believe it yet. Continue reading “Tom Montag, Early Spring”
Evidence of Things Unseen
Michael T. Young
At first a scratch behind the wall.
Swelling pipes? Then
streamers of insulation
behind the toilet, frayed
carpet threads near baseboard molding.
Refresh the traps, clean out
the old peanut butter bait,
green and hard in the bowls.
Rats take days to grow comfortable
with changes in the room.
But on a rainy night,
when there’s little to feed on, a snap
in the dark. In the morning, I find
the limp, mud-colored
body of our suspicions.
There’s relief, an easing of defenses, Continue reading “Michael T. Young, Evidence of Things Unseen”
Sunset At Times Square
A Villanelle
Steven Concert
Reflecting in the setting sun,
mannequins in quiet repose
while bodies crash in unison.
So hurriedly the people run
to destinations no one knows.
Reflecting in the setting sun,
where elegance is mixed with fun,
white limousines in lengthy rows
while bodies crash in unison.
Where gridlock fights the engine’s gun,
the burning fuel assaults the nose.
Reflecting in the setting sun,
the city rhythms beat as one.
Broadway shines, its radiance grows
while bodies crash in unison. Continue reading “Steven Concert, Sunset at Times Square”
Liberation Army
Michelle Reale
Well, you know, it’s really been, you know, quite a trip for me.
—Patty Hearst
Everything pointed to survival. I was Patty Hearst with a loaded gun,
but really, more like meringue: all flourish with little substance.
The cinnamon I craved was dark as peat, still, I sprinkled it over everything.
My task was subjective. I tied the Gordian knot and focused on digestion.
The suppression of the lump in my throat was a collaborative effort.
My peripheral vision has failed me more than once, my words concise in a clutch. Continue reading “Michelle Reale, Liberation Army”
Word Fountain 