I had a weekend, pictures. I went around
sightseeing all the old haunts. (Those still standing.)
A photo of an old blue house cracked and faded,
paint still on the surface.
(A wish for wood glue and happiness.) The front door hinges
still held with crooked nails, a smoke-dark window
over the alley. Near your lips you kept
the fire here.
I desperately thought of it, a quiet space
in the parking lot. Dive bars, so many of the same
friends still running – a grand chorus
waiting for our ghosts.
Suppose that we have a place in the world
that has been left for our hearts to be pinned to.
Regardless, we go away to the cities. We leave,
ignoring the will of the world. We make weak excuses.
We leave and yet are pulled. Me, ahead of us.
pulled, pulled back.
C.C. Russell has published his poetry and prose in such journals as The Meadow, The Colorado Review, and Whiskey Island. He has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and for Best of the Net and is included in the Best Microfiction series. He lives in Wyoming with a couple of humans and several cats. You can find more of his work at ccrussell.net.