Three Poems by Howie Good

The Golden Age

A Russian émigré
with access

to the unconscious
loaded a brush

with black pigment.
It was not like today.

There were flowers
you could eat.

***

Annunciation

1
A black half-moon, red circles below it like breasts. The sounds in the grass disturb the neighborhood’s grief.

2
A dagger-tongued horse peeks in. Black lines of rain veil the troubled queen. The man in overalls who has begun drinking heavily again smiles and smiles.

3
The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. A flower is a fox in a hole.

4
With the arrival of summer, such winds. The movement of knife in shell never faltered.

***

Moving Out

We packed our belongings – blue triangle, high, philosophical forehead, dog bowls – in a delivery van. The butcher who loaned it to us was missing a fingertip. We didn’t stop until we made the border with Michigan, our celebratory breakfast consisting of takeout coffee and Camel cigarettes. The clouds off to the west had a slightly worried expression. One looked like a dour old farmer, another like his farmhand Charlie.

More poetry at Used Furniture.

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