July 1-7, 2024: Poetry from Elizabeth Marchitti and Jeff Tobin

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Elizabeth Marchitti

Elizabeth Marchitti is a 93 year old poet, who has been writing for many years.  Her poems have been published in The Paterson Literary Review, Lips and Sensations Magazine, among others. In 2017, her chapbook, Growing Old Disgracefully was published by Finishing Line Press. She has hesitated to send her follow-up chapbook I Don’t Do That Any More to Finishing Line, although it has so far been rejected by other publishers.

The following work is Copyright © 2024, and owned by Elizabeth Marchitti and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

I Am Not the Poet

A tiny woman lives
inside my head.
She writes my poems.
She chooses words for sound,
as well as meaning.
She has studied poetry
for many years.
She knows iambs, trochees,
and dactyls intimately,
and knows exactly when
to ignore them.
She has an impeccable ear
for alliteration and metaphor.
Her instinct is never wrong.

It is I, the editor,
the rebellious one, who devise
the incredible oxymorons,
the ones that sound so lovely,
but convey no meaning.

It is I who disregard
what the tiny woman says.
She dictates perfect poems:
something is lost
in the transcription.


Accepted January 31, 1992 by Passager, A Journal of Remembrance and Discovery

Jeff Tobin

Jeffery Allen Tobin is a political scientist and researcher based in South Florida. His extensive body of work primarily explores U.S. foreign policy, democracy, national security, and migration. Currently affiliated with Florida International University, he contributes to both the academic community and policymaking sphere. He has been writing poetry and prose for more than 30 years.

The following work is Copyright © 2024, and owned by Jeff Tobin and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Last Night’s Love Affair

She was there,
standing by the refrigerator,
a beer in one hand,
an invitation in the other.
Last night’s lover,
but the lover was just a microwave pizza
I’d forgotten to eat.

She winked at me, greasy and cold,
her cheese a little hard around the edges,
much like myself at 2 AM
staring back at the remnants
of a date with the oven timer.

We danced,
me and that slice,
from plate to mouth to regret,
and by morning,
she was just an empty box,
and I was just an empty man,
proof that not all late-night affairs
end in satisfaction.
But damn, they sure fill you up.



Morning fractures,
a split yolk spilling light
across the cracked surface
of the old kitchen table.

I trace these lines—
as if mapping rivers
that flow nowhere,
carrying stories
of small, unnoticed erosions.

The coffee brews,
bitter drip by drip,
its aroma a promise
or a lie,
depending on the hour.

Each sip a pause,
a consideration
of what fills and what empties,
in the quiet
that speaks louder
than the rush of day ahead.

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