by Jim Zola —
There are reasons for this too, and reasons for the reasons; there always are.
— Raymond Chandler, “The Simple Art of Murder”
I’m dreaming of Kansas again,
the way hot air
The back patio after a storm,
hidden in green laughter.
A chickadee puddles in the shade
of a fender in the parking lot.
I saunter by feeling drunk
with empathy, a tonic that only
lasts until I reach the automatic
glass doors leading inside
where cool air is a blessing. Then I think
peccant angels crammed on pins.
Super glue, duct tape, temporary fixes.
Everyone I know is dying or moving out.