shot glass
"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

Cameron Morse

Page 1 | 2 | 3

Poem in Reply

Dear Friend, your postcard finds me well,
my wife pregnant, on a dark morning in March.
Ghosts float in the oak tree branches outside
my window. A turtle dove burrs the powerline,
watching cars whisk along Duncan, tailfeathers
draped like a pair of scissors over the cord.
Tires murmur like a lamasery. When I step out
to get the mail, sparrows brawling in a swirl
of dust-the world as we know it, ISIS
in Syria, Donald and Melania, my mother throws
open the storm door, erupting onto the front
stoop, and shouts until the two ragged birds stop
killing each other and fly off together.