Tonight we find them again,
parked under the stars
(no one ever
eats inside in Heaven),
beeping the tired carhop
with her pageboy and mascara
for a paper boat of French fries
Sandra Simonds – August in South Georgia
Why do I drink so much gin? Has something to do
with the way they burn the trees down here on either
side of the highway. Man selling boiled peanuts,
Joy Katz – Poem
We should not have produced all this life.
Let’s say I am
in a state of heightened attentiveness.
Is this my gift? Do I take your head in my hands
Miguel M. Morales – This Is a Migrant Poem
This is a migrant poem
a farmworking poem, a poem that covers itself
in long sleeves to avoid the burning sun.