Sitting in a freshly painted room, thinking
that I should be leaving, thinking that it
smells like rain. I have left my son's globe
on the living room table. I have left too
many bills unpaid, too many windows open,
and the truck is almost out of gas. The
woman walking down the stairs knows my
name, smiles like we're old friends, says
she lost everything in the flood. Says her
husband left her for a younger woman,
but she can't be more than twenty-two,
twenty-three. She can't stop crying, and
I can't think of anything to say. I need to
get home in case there's a fire. In case the
phone rings. I am tired of waiting for

John Sweet, single father of 2, opposed to all organized religions, suspicious of anyone who would willingly run for public office. a believer in writing as catharsis. a new collection, give a poor man god and watch him starve available from lulu.com. (bleedinghorse99@yahoo.com)

Boxcar Poetry Review - ISSN 1931-1761