I don’t know. I never do. Not held yesterday, yesterday meaning years. The rent, the rent always, always. Dog downstairs barking at what I don’t know. I never do. Rent late, a thunderstorm supposing, and kleptocracy on end. I am teacher, all summer unpaid suicidal as if being practical. Brink of—brink of—what? Suppose I am refugee, crossing the wide unpotable. Or just walking an alley dark, phone in hand. Behind me twenty paces, ahead twenty paces. I live not quite passing as alive, no money for a sick dog. Listen: Precariat is a word The Precariat don’t know—so says my dad’s vague look. Sky might fall makes sense to him. Gutter rise up, take us under.
A. Loudermilk's Strange Valentine won the Crab Orchard Series in Poetry First Book Award. His poems appear in publications like Cream City Review, Gargoyle, Smaritsh Pace, and Tin House, his essays in The Writer’s Chronicle, PopMatters, and the Journal of International Women’s Studies. He’s taught creative writing at Hampshire College and Maryland Institute College of Arts. He now lives in Champaign-Urbana, Illinois.
