Skip to main content

Grey Sparrow Journal

Issue 30, July 31, 2017
Home
Contents
Biographies
Submissions
Archives
Editors
Contact Us
Publications
Policies


LITTLE SHOP OF TIME

  

There is a shop that sells

time and from this side of the street

old men walk in and come out pockets full.

 

I can only see it through the living-

room window covered by family portraits.

 

            They would remind me of my own memories

                                    if I would stop poking holes in the faces

                                                            to watch people buy what they’ve lost.

                                                On my

                                                            wall

                                                            is

                                                            the

                                                                        dust

                                                                        outline

                                                                        of picture frames.

 

                                                                                   -Aaron Reeder


 

THE JUNK STORE

 

on the shelves: a toy fire

engine, small plastic

oven, birdcage papered with

tomorrow.

People form

            a line at the register, exchanging the ink

in their pens, the cotton

            in new bottles of pain

relievers for wind,

                        sea shells, and the smell

of sun on untamed grass. I have nothing

in my pockets, but a coin

                        to buy the birdcage.

                                                                                                                                                                                         -Aaron Reeder


 

THE MURAL

  

buried deep is a wall. I found

            it sifting through cities, their

                        neighborhoods

            their cookouts.

                                    The mural has been chalked

                        into the cement

blocks. I pushed it over      let it spill       run

 across the hospitals

                        across the summers and winters

                        then back again.

            Only after this did I notice the mural was of

            a man whose home was missing.


                                                              -Aaron Reeder


 

THE PIT IN THE WINDOW

 

                                                cut by the clink  poured out         

                                                 from an old soap box,                               

                                                                                                a boy counts pennies

in velocity. It is the difference between a carton of milk

and the need to save what he already has.                    

           

            He is the window in the reflection of his family

             the evicted   sharp crack

crawling away from the center. 

 

            There is a black bubble

                        from the inside a hand tears at it,

            thumbs out longer cracks.

                       

            Looking through the reflection, a baby

                        her sunken face and with each of my blinks

                                                her breath patters against us

                                                and the pit grows.


                                                                           -Aaron Reeder

 





Hourglass © S. Sepp