| This Edition's Poetry |
Memory Recovery
for myself
A short lady, with short black hair
in a tiny white tank top, small breasts,
and no glasses, on aisle nine, drops a jar
of jelly or jam and our eyes cross.
Years ago, a lady like
her, but with less teeth, would visit my father
and he'd find twenty dollars, then they'd leave
for a "drive around the block."
One day as she steps from his car,
fixing her shirt's strap, she looks
into my bedroom window-
and something in their eyes is the same.
by Kevin Dublin
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