Evan Kennedy


We bend our horizons to the parabola of Joltin’ Joe’s pop flys. From the highest point we’re hanging our laundry the laundry that weeps black muddy tears. Our hats are tri-cornered our Model-T hearts jumping in our throats. All the mousetraps we lay are found on the ends of our tails. Passing clouds fill up our shirts leap into our trousers and make their way to the movies. We would join them if we could read the marquee from here. And what of the clothes we still own the clothes that remain. We wear the shawls of the last Confederate widows stretching far past our feet our chests bare to the wind.