Lisa Johns


A thread, stitched into the wind

unravels from its design.

And from the open window

which cools my sweaty neck,

pigeons feed from the sill.

A dirty motel room offering nourishment

from its breast of rusty guardrails

and gutters collapsing under the eaves.

Here, only the hallway raises the corner of its mouth

and only the hinges creak a greeting.

Sometimes, I see him still,

black beard hidden in a crowd

I look for his brown fingers

his lips hanging over his laughter

yet all the while, the wind

still struggles to change direction.


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