Three Poems by Glen Armstrong



Cherry Cola III


Hearts distorted as if the sun has risen

within us, we walk and talk

funny,


a compliment to clowns but less

than endearing family

trait.


The neighbors talk about getting a dog.

Nothing should leave the

tapestry;


people are particularly attached

to both the source of

light


with which the artist intended 

to deceive them and the 

source 


of light that the curator chose.

We didn’t choose this.

Sister 


and I knock on doors to sell seeds.

The neighbors decline,

imagining


that each sunflower pebble

in each envelope

is


as queerly lit as we are.



Each Other’s Shoes


I am your friend. 

If the smell of mint were in

an abusive relationship


with the smell of whiskey


upon your breath,

I would tell you.


That thing you were saying

about religion being


a kind of syphilis

that only spreads on the internet

made me angry at first.


Then I thought about it.

Then I thought about old factories

abandoned on roadsides.


There are not that many places

I wouldn’t walk


with you,

but that whole thing about wearing

each other’s shoes is for the birds.


Rescue


For no particular reason.

I weep midafternoon in the middle.

Of a sidewalk like a parking meter. 

Or an informational kiosk.

That parts heavy foot traffic.

Unless I mumble.

About lighthouses and white.

Houses and bug houses.

And see-through blouses.

The passersby allow me this moment.


That which is pulled from the fire.

Must be kept warm.

Allowed to cool gradually.

The glass globe breaks.

The child with one shoe.

Drinks the coco that a stranger.

Purchases from a Lebanese restaurateur.

While the world falls.

Down around my own feet the truth.

Rides in on an off-white horse.

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