By Noah Renn
I see you
claws of yeti shed for fall.
I see you
Two Vicodin for a giant.
I swallow the idea
of leaving anything behind.
Two dead doves,
the broke-off teeth of megalodon,
discarded dragon spikes,
you are testament to the power of bouncing the fuck out
when a body says, I am done with this game.
I imagine a cartoon cloud of dust.
You, floating down like gull feathers on piano notes,
the running back, a blue laser beam down Philpotts Rd.
Snowy owls at rest,
huge, used Q-tip tips,
gauze-wrapped hands, amputated.
Dropped halves of an Italian grinder,
butcher paper slightly unfurled,
the diner, now hungry for something else.
What shoes was I wearing
when I quit my first job?
When I could no longer stand
that bald asshole in his kitchen crocs?
When there are no clouds
and the sun falls at mythical angles,
you are Mercury’s sandals.
Even now I am resisting the urge
to drop my tie and loafers,
to turn around and just fly.
Noah Renn has lived as a working writer and educator in Southeastern Virginia for over 15 years. His poetry and nonfiction can be found in various publications both online and in print, and his chapbook, Sinking City, was published in 2019 from Finishing Line Press. He currently leads a poetry workshop at the nonprofit literary organization, The Muse Writers Center, in Norfolk, Virginia.