by William Hudson

Published in Issue No. 201 ~ February, 2014

Of course, there was a woman

Involved. The extent is problematic,

That involvement: merely across


The room, a bourbon-soaked

Fancy? Not approached? No real

Connection made?


It was after a reading. Fact.

Hugo: excellent, as expected.

He’d forgotten, another fact,


His briefcase or valise

Or satchel and recited,

From memory, all his works


Or all that he’d planned

To read, but with nothing to read

The poems lived anyway,


In his head, from his head

To ours, the listeners, rapt

Despite our ennui-exuding selves.


And stoked, admiring,

We went to someone’s house

Afterwards, gathered,


Talking, gleaning memories

To keep our own alive,

And the six-pack went quickly,


Primed as I was, and I started

On whatever the kitchen counter

Held that was found


To be open


And of course


There was a woman

And I functioned

I suppose


In a blackout phase

That I came out of the next

Day to my regret.


Case drove, fortuitously,

Case, who doesn’t drink,

Case, who when asked,


Shakes his head and laughs.

Case, who tells me nothing

I need to know. Not fact one.


Case, that sonofabitch—



—D.C. rip

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William Hudson was born in Arkansas, grew up there and in Illinois, lives now in Spokane, where he worked many years for a community action agency. He has appeared in The Caribbean Writer, HEArt Journal, Review Americana, DMQ Review, The View From Here, New Madrid Review, The Honey Land Review, Pif Magazine, The Other Journal, and elsewhere.