by John Amen
for BD
In the morning, I found a piano dumped in my front lawn.
No one saw the snake in the clover?
The Uhaul idling in front of the mailbox?
How about those smiles in the street,
mouths that moved but made
no sound? This is when
a large prosthetic hand starts waving in the glare.
Every boy throws away his father’s wings,
certain he’ll find a better set. Years later,
he returns to the dumpsite,
but of course they’re gone.
He busies himself, feather by pawnshop feather.
He’ll fly, if it’s the death of him.
I waited for instructions from the skybox,
wondering if I could make Disneycorp by nightfall. Someone
lit a cigarette & tuned a guitar. Someone polished a badge.
John Amen was the recipient of the 2021 Jack Grapes Poetry Prize and the 2024 Susan Laughter Myers Fellowship. His poems have appeared recently in Rattle, Prairie Schooner, and Tupelo Quarterly. His sixth collection, Dark Souvenirs, was released by NYQ Books in May 2024.
