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 he’s 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.