Strong evidence
of tobacco use on the corner
outside the library. I should
know. Have checked out
for five all but one
year of my life
in this town. A red
Q on this book
cover is no longer
a question. Quality days
begin to stack up
against an invisible wall. Collections
have their place. I don’t
miss the smoke.
These immobilization fees
don’t cover what she does
with her left wrist. Flicks serifs
off letters the way she used to release
ashes from her smokes, the way
I might dismiss her
without understanding what she might be
building in that empty lot. April snow lasts
only so long—then she’ll write this off too.
“Throw the calendar away—gonna find a jukebox of steel.”
—Jay Farrar, “Jukebox of Steel”
Don’t ask me to set a date,
to plan my release
from this worn Sisyphean trail—
uphill with no benefits. I only know
how to drop
it,
put my flame
to other things. By sudden impulse,
I hear a message transmitted
where I thought
communication was shot. God
wears new clothes.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 