Dear Gold Coastó

Sounds like low-flying lions thru the airspace
between its bigcity shoulders. Hopefully theyíre more show
than stalk. Itís gonna come down to haymakers, otherwise.
Like way back, when the heavyweight division had a little
respectability. Before most lions stuck themselves in jesus-
poses, pockets full of posies & a fist like a unified proletariat.
Thatís community! or at least a clear day for fly-bys. Ready
made for acrobatics. But windís always stronger & sheer on
the observation decks, close enough for jet turbines to snatch
& shred unsuspecting tourists, tourists being an overly ex-
pectant bunch. I havenít seen those old lions since pitching
camp in the city. No postcards from the grasslands. No ability
to be taken for granted. Tourists or no, weíre all to be taken.
Even the roaring.

Beware the big game hunters,

Quad Cities

Ryan Collins has worked as a video store clerk, literary magazine lackey/editor, political canvasser, paraprofessional, writing consultant, arts administrator, and haberdasher. His work has been published in The Benefactor, Black Clock, Caffeine Destiny, Columbia Poetry Review, Cranky, Keep Going, LUNGFULL!, Sentence, Third Coast, Verse Daily, and other places. He also plays drums in the Chicago-based rock outfit The Prairie Spies (www.theprairiespies.com). His zodiac sign is Scorpio. (ryancollins3@netzero.com)

Boxcar Poetry Review - ISSN 1931-1761