by Heather Sager
In that
small town
I was
days of
pencil drawing
on paper
I was
girl
in the corner
being told
by men to
help in the kitchen
That small
town flickered with
yellow and green leaves
blowing and desolate
men with trucker
hats on
and the open garage
you passed where
someone hung a deer, gutted
and
Pabst signs
flashed
on bar windows
Dark starry nights
I rode in a car backseat
by winter forest,
the lonesome boles
were shades of bluish charcoal
on black depths
The icy pointillism
snowflakes
blowing by
dark
Windows
****
Heather Sager lives in Illinois where she writes poetry and fiction. Her most recent poems appear in Chiron Review, Tipton Poetry Journal, First Light Journal, Fixator Press, and more.