by Andrew Weatherhead
Brisk October Poem
From Cats and Dogs (2013)
Clouds gather concentrically overhead.
The weird, creepy church looms in the distance.
Unfortunately, a poem does not reveal itself.
I continue walking, gathering speed.
The world is in the exact shape of my eyes and I have no choice but to believe it.
I cross the street and behold a black Range Rover bearing down on me.
I observe its perfect symmetry slowing down, looking annoyed.
Briefly, I contemplate a bagel.
Somewhere, someplace it is raining but not that hard.
The phone does not ring before you answer it.
Your voice emerges from the darkness like a crystalline thing.
I forgot what I was going to say so that is what I say.
The things I say are in the exact shape of an email I will send later.
I think about basketball for the rest of the day.
I see the Golden State Warriors in everything.
Poem
From Cats and Dogs (2013)
You don’t even know
you know even half
the stuff you know.
No one is home.
In 2012, 141 people
were killed by trains.
Deadass
From Todd (2018)
Michelle said, repeating
herself, you can’t
repeat this
as if words won’t exist
for unknown
unknowns.
And though soothing
taxonomy only
obfuscates the truth
days keep calm, rain
wanders in, and the courtyard
is speechless.
Your mom thinks,
let’s get it – this
one thing – straight.
It’s the loose, soft stuff
that connects
that hurts.
And like a wall, we’ll
believe anything.
I try to remember
my refrain, my fear,
better than hers.
What won’t hold water?
A leaky ceiling, a tiny
baby. Close the door.
Take a seat.
Hooty hoo.
Andrew Weatherhead is a writer and artist based in Glens Falls, NY. He is the author of four poetry collections -- Fudge, $50,000, TODD, and Cats and Dogs.