Bomber Jacket

Sand fleas leap the sunset where Carmaggeden occupies the freeway.
On the muddy banks of the Mississippi, we slip mickeys to bums on benches.
Pop and I: waxing life in the freight yard, where barley stinks like wet dog food,
And where we tag dumpsters, stare up at the Arch, that gleaming frown, and ask
“Who am I to you now?”
We drive an old Camry, rattling up drug highway 57, looking for gold with no rainbow.
Outside a Lemon Drop store in Boulder, Colorado, we sail paper planes in cold air.
Up to the Flat Irons we go: making snow pies, shelling shrimp, feeding geese, getting bit,
Calling it family, a life—who knows where it goes?

 


 

Bryce.Berkowitz (2)Bryce Berkowitz’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Passages North, Oyez Review, Evansville Review, Tule Review, among other publications. He has a BA in Creative Writing from Columbia College Chicago. He currently lives in West Virginia. 

 

 

B.A. Berkowitz
Bryce Berkowitz’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Passages North, Oyez Review, Evansville Review, Tule Review, among other publications. He has a BA in Creative Writing from Columbia College Chicago. He currently lives in West Virginia.

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