Last Night on Earth
The very act of waiting
makes the case
for continuation.
Ask the core
of some old tree how death
and wood collaborate.
On the Floor
Take me with you.
I will dress up like Captain Marvel.
I will sing a beautiful song
in honor of the fictional
dead,
the matchgirls and sidekicks.
I will lick the postage stamps
and get in the face
of lamplighters and steam
punk aficionados.
I will sleep on the floor
and dream of a woman
who turns to silk whenever
her sweetheart touches her.
Year of the Sea Monkey CLXXII
Sometimes I wonder if
there could ever be a more
beautiful word than “passersby.”
It’s the sort of thought
that comes and goes,
at once irregular
and finely tailored.
Sometimes a person’s lover
will walk into the room
and say, “The tube
has a tiny hole, and I have
glue all over my hands.”
This happened to me once.
I used to be good at multitasking.
We all were, really.
It was hard to tell sometimes
who was sipping a fizzy
drink on the patio
and who was the passerby,
who was in the moment
and who was off to the side.
About the Author
Glen Armstrong holds an MFA in English from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and teaches writing at Oakland University in Rochester, Michigan. He edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters and has a current book of prose poems: Invisible Histories. His work has appeared in Ræd Leaf Poetry, Conduit, and Setu.
