by Spencer Smith

  1. I am a participant in the retail sale
  2. of my own life:
  3. I expected full value
  4. but someone else has filled
  5. what I could only half-fill,
  6. chasing that which does not flee,
  7. inhaling the smell of sound
  8. until my head balloons with deafness,
  9. lugging a basket with which
  10. to pick up the pieces of my fallen breath
  11. while the day divides itself
  12. into uneven hours
  13. and I trudge through the dark weather
  14. of unhappiness,
  15. pelted by the ejecta of a future self
  16. which I no longer foresee,
  17. following the rutted trail
  18. back to a home where I do not live,
  19. inhabited by echoes
  20. of voices that will never be heard.
Packingtown Review – Vol.5, Fall 2013

Spencer Smith is a University of Utah graduate and works in the corporate world to pay the bills that poetry doesn’t pay (i.e. all of them). His poetry has appeared in over thirty literary journals. Besides writing, he enjoys reading a broad spectrum of literature, playing guitar, listening to an eclectic mix of music, and spending time with family.

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    To a Friend in Hospice
    David Starkeypoetry