November 30, 2013

Guardian Angel by Michael Holme

My luck: autumn hung
all coloured like a flaccid perch
fooled by a bloodworm. That’s how I felt,
without fight, at the mercy of the falling
leaves and melancholy memories. 

I sat in our car and pictured you.
It’s some time since you drove, 
always parking in “drive-throughs.”
I would occasionally smoke.
It’s now I know how bad they smelled.
You had much patience. 

Perhaps you’re in charge of electricity: LIFE; 
aiming jolts at dangling captives

Michael Holme is an English writer and widower. He lives with his elderly dog, Lucy. When hes not writing or on Facebook he plays a little bit of piano. Most recently he has been published in Boston Literary Magazine, Red River Review, Eunoia Review, and is forthcoming in Kestrel.

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