John Tustin
John Tustin’s poetry has appeared in many disparate literary journals since 2009. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.
The following work is Copyright © 2023, and owned by John Tustin and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Ketchup on Her Eggs
It made me wince
when she asked the cashier for ketchup packets
and then when we sat down
I felt a little queasy
watching her open up her sandwich
and squirt all that ketchup on her eggs
with gloppy squelchy sounds
but I didn’t say a word
and, after we finished eating
our bacon and eggs on a roll,
we got up to leave
and when we did
she gave me an abrupt kiss
across the cafeteria-like table
and I could taste the eggs mixed with ketchup
that lingered in her mouth
and I didn’t even mind it.
I must have really loved her.
Wilson Taylor
Wilson R. M. Taylor is a poet living in New York City. His work appears or is forthcoming in duality, The Ekphrastic Review, Rockvale Review, Superpresent, Volney Road Review, and a number of other journals. He is currently at work on his first chapbook. For more, please visit https://wilsontaylor19.wixsite.com/wilsonrmtaylor.
The following work is Copyright © 2023, and owned by Wilson Taylor and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
E Train to World Trade
A barefoot man doing scratch-offs
squeezes in the corner. Yesterday
at rush hour a blanket-wrapped body,
hemisphere where no one would go.
A week ago a prophet predicted
doomsday: You’re all gonna pay.
The man in the corner mutters—
I crane my neck but someone’s
bicycle hides the numbers.
A plastic real estate ad gleams:
Put an offer on the table
that takes others off of it.
By the graveyard on Church St.
my umbrella twists and snaps; jammed
face-to-face under an overhang,
we watch a woman sell replacements
to rain-drenched passersby. I left
my change at home, oh well.
Cardinal
You cling to dew-wet branches over an empty grave.
Mourners emerge from a seaside church,
place naked wood and shovel dirt
into the silence.
……………………….You erupt—
the mourners claim you as their own, their faith
your red-throated song. Their footprints fill
the tide-marked sand before the waves hiss through.
Your beak points into fog.
