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Grey Sparrow Journal

Issue 30, July 31, 2017
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CREOSOTE ASH
 
clings to the apple boughs
instead of snow. A fireman squats.
His ax swings through the basement panes--
ten summers ago painted shut.
An icicle drips from his spider moustache.
The landlord taps his steel-toed workboots
together, road dust rises from worn,
thin uppers. Laces blackened from tar.
A whiskey glass in his shaky hand
as the rum works to warm him. A bonfire of smoke
as the lady on the first floor stays behind
to save the bedsheets which need smoothing.
She fluffs the pillows as if to hug herself.
 

 

                                             --Paul Cordeiro