| Nebraska
black cows
lie in Winter
wheat:
un-watered
corners
of circle-
sprinkled
corn,
or whatever
else they
feed cows
to feed us.
Their symmetry
is blackness—
four legs in
straight rows,
dry yellow
stalks rattle
in wind:
The feed
lot is stamped
to black
mud.
The feed
lot’s existence
is toxic.
Light is
absorbed in
the black
cow on
the hill.
The cow is
a copy.
It’s blackness
is the foreground
of a Winter
wheat photo.
A square frame of
black velvet
awaiting
an Elvis
portrait.
Like in High School
I sit here by myself waiting
for a girl to call.
I start drinking.
I read thirty pages,
I walk out on the balcony to
smoke the last half of a joint.
I try to light it,
it falls from my fingers through a
tiny crack in the boards.
I think about retrieving it.
Something tells me to give it up.
I start reading again.
All the poems are about loss.
The girl will never call.
- Mike O'Reilly
| Mike lives, plays the drums and spends
hours riding bicycles in Royal Oak, Michigan. He's a poet and novelist. |
|
