The adolescent argues with his penis behind a thin door.
The toddler whines with one hand in his bile-pea soup.
The father tries to hold his children who flicker on and off like neon ghosts.
The professional grips his stethoscope and mumbles diabetes, potassium.
The toddler whines with one hand in his bile-pea soup.
The father tries to hold his children who flicker on and off like neon ghosts.
The professional grips his stethoscope and mumbles diabetes, potassium.
The husband traces his wife’s lower back, reaching for her round wetness.
The poet pretends to feel old things, hanging ants and spiders on fiery webs.
The athlete breathes to the bottom of the lungs, shakes in fluid.
The drunk silently sets the whiskey up into the cupboard, smells his throat.
No one talks. Everyone talks.
The room is not the light. None of these are me. The clipboard is blank.
The light is the room. All of these are me. The blank is
Scott Ferry helps our Veterans heal as a RN. He has recent work in American Journal of Poetry, Misfit, and Cultural Weekly, among others. His second book Mr. Rogers Kills Fruit Flies will be published by Main St Rag in Fall 2020. More of his work can be found at ferrypoetry.com.
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