A lightening
Droplets of condensation down
the cheap tin
of the cheap can
residual handprint bleeding water
The vacant chair
threadbare from years of lounging
a scratchy radio in the background
ancient songs
antique sounds
She still nags, chicken-pecking in the kitchen, about this, that, the other thing, almost drowning out the broken music.  What she doesn’t realize is that
He’s gone
After all these years
up and left
beer still cold
chair still warm
no longer there to listen
no longer there to care
He walks down the driveway
smoking a Camel
his other hand flicking the straw
that broke the camel’s back
“Raymond writes poems like novels – if novels were lives that could be smashed against a wall in anger and pieced back together in the morning.”
- Wolfgang Carstens

“The mundane polished to a sheen of sublime.”
​- Jay Passer

“let[s] a reader dwell in the unpleasant pleasures of annoyance…”
​- Andrew Bailey

Weakdays, Corrupt Press, France

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