GFT Press  A Philanthropic Literary And Art Press  

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Cord Moreski




For a second I actually felt like one

when I walked past the house I grew up in 

briefly turning my attention to the blue light 

flickering inside my old living room,

but not recognizing the infant

sound asleep in a woman's arms,

nor the rebellious child in front of them 

sitting too close to the television screen,

or the man who stood outside the front door 

beneath a broken porch light

stubbing his finished cigarette on the handrail, 

watching me as I strolled by

before kicking his feet onto 

the welcome mat, shooting 

me a second glance as if he 

just saw a ghost.





Outside the kitchen window,      

I watch as the storm rolls in     

enveloping the sky that hangs     

to snippets of day like a bandage     

peeling from a battered knee.       

I, too, find myself grasping     

for something fleeting          

when I turn to this room  

of pushed-in chairs,  

weeks of takeout food  

left spoiled on the counter,  

the missed appointment notices  

fanned out like a dropped card deck    

along the linoleum floor.     

All appearing like symptoms     

that I'm not ready to acknowledge 

as the rain begins to tap  

against the glass behind me  

like a friend on a shoulder—    

making sure if I'm alright.