Jetsam and Flotsam

A poem by Len Kuntz


I sit on a sidewalk
listening to the rain,
how it sounds like
chicks pecking on the pavement
as a thousand cabs slog by,
sloshing filthy rainbows
of water over me.
We’ve taken cabs
up and down this same street,
across the Brooklyn Bridge
to Bryant Park or Nolita.
You said, “The rain is nothing to fear,”
even as the floods came,
boats unmoored,
boards like broken bones,
the essence of us
now nothing more than
jetsam and flotsam
wafting away with the rising tide.


Len Kuntz is a writer from Washington state, an editor at the online magazine Literary Orphans, and the author of I’m Not Supposed To Be Here and Neither Are You, available from Unknown Press. Check out his website

Advertisements

Especially

A poem by Len Kuntz


Your swift kiss tastes a lot like prohibition.
My pincushion eyes have a hard time centering on
your hockey puck pupils.
But now you are laughing
like a drunk hyena.
Someone somewhere has said something hilarious
or maybe you’re just remembering.
I want to be your skin for a week,
go shopping where you shop,
work with you at your place of employment,
touch the people you touch,
the lover who knows how to
make you laugh like that.
Especially him.


Len Kuntz is a writer from Washington state, an editor at the online magazine Literary Orphans, and the author of I’m Not Supposed To Be Here and Neither Are You, available from Unknown Press. Check out his website