Sticks scrape a rhythm
to years ago,
some small part of you maybe still.
You remember his name
he knows.
Not much else,
he thinks.
You stare at dark nothings.
You could still call,
shrink time
a bit
in the oven
of your room.
You could pull it down
to size,
widen his breath
and eyes,
but you drop,
lie
for an hour
to music he taped
and sleep
again.
About the AuthorC.C. Russel lives in Wheatland, Wyoming. Former editor of The Owen Wister Review, Russel now works as a convenience store clerk – a job, we're told, that is highly-suited to literary pursuits. Russel's work has appeared in over 34 publications throughout the U.S., Canada, and England, including: Cotton Gin, Oyster Boy Review, and The Hiram Poetry Review.
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