The Last Place on Earth For a Grinning Man By Troy Schoultz

With your morning coffee and french toast fritter.

When the snow falls, its always Sunday

With nothing to do, but look out the window

Listening to the radiator tap out a code

On how to live at this exact shard of moment.

That winter coat you’ve not worn in eight months 

Holds a twenty dollar bill.

A haloed sun endures through snowfall

Like a polished silver coin.

Walking downtown,

Painted signs against the brick wall are 

A lucky red, like Chinese weddings and second

To last chances.

There are still newsstands, rows

Of magazines to pick and read

At the table by the frosted window,

You hold her hand, and hang on each others words.

Old men play cribbage, young women laugh,

Nobody fears eye contact.

You can almost pretend that the internet

Was never invented, that phones stayed home.

Coffee grinders roar above the music,

And you think you will maybe stick around

A little while longer, watch the street lights

Like stars refusing to acknowledge they've died

TROY SCHOULTZ is a poet, analog collage artist, and apparently, a survivor. He is the author of three full-length collections and two chapbooks. He makes his home in Oshkosh, WI. He is currently working on a novel, but ain't they all...