ghost town
the red rose bush
in full bloom
Author: Joanne Morcom
Joanne Morcom is a writer, social worker and certified laughter yoga leader in Calgary, Alberta. She is the author of two poetry collections, A Nameless Place,available from Sam's Dot Publishing, and About the Blue Moon, available from magpie productions / Inkling Press. Visit her at www.joannemorcom.com
thrift store
in a coat pocket
to-do list
traffic jam
watching the clouds
pass me by
storm clouds
the marching band
picks up speed
prairie sky
just big enough
to hold the stars
game over
small birds gather
on the bleachers
age spots
I no longer talk
with my hands
pandemic
the welcome mat
removed
overcast sky
the census taker asks
if I live alone
home run
the baseball leaves us
all behind
thrift store
the mannequin wears
a mink stole
red eye flight
a round of Bloody Marys
before take-off
birthday cake
a slice for everyone
in the hospice
tea cools
the conversation
heats up
from pampas grass
a dragonfly emerges
thunderclaps
cloudy day
I wave at the neighbors
I don’t know
garden Buddha
knee deep in dead leaves
once again
plans for the year
have gone astray
sunset
in the Painted Desert
all new colors
moving across
the sagebrush field
cloud shadows
Joshua Tree
points toward the promised land
with every branch
park bench
the stranger beside me
inches closer
a chalk outline
on the sidewalk
her last silueta
baked bodies
on Copacabana Beach
vultures circle
city park
Neruda’s statue
in the shadows
a black bird
on the white fence post
sheet lightning
yard sale
the Venus de Milo
marked ”as is””
surrounding
the quiet bungalow
yellow crime scene tape
hospice lounge
the newspaper
three days old
where are they now?
my mother and father
in last night’s dream
well dressed mannequins …
I turn up the collar
of my old coat
autumn afternoon
all around the duck pond
shotgun shells
autumn dusk
a cigarette smolders
on the sidewalk
anniversary
of her suicide
rain, rain, rain
downpour
the barber shaves
himself
ghost town
outside the saloon
parked trucks
a white owl settles
on the telephone pole
snowflakes swirl
winter night
I keep the telemarketer
talking