by Carol Townsend

After thirty years of washings,
your exact color has been lost.

Bold number two pencil hue
now faded to dull ochre.

You are made of ordinary cotton,
stretched out of shape, frayed

at the neck, sleeves cut off, ending
at the elbow. Venerable Friend,

my Good Luck Charm, Survival
Accomplice, you have comforted

me while I mourned my many
losses — partner, daughter, job,

mobility. But, I am undeterred by
your infirmities despite my wife’s

threats to toss you out on garbage
day; wearing you is like being

wrapped in sunshine. The fact is,
I depend upon you even now. I too,

am faded, awkward, with pieces
missing, tethered to cane and

walker. Come, swaddle me, I beg
of you, for I await my own demise

foreshadowed in each thread that
snags, every seam that splits.

by Terence Winch

I am going to a party on a submarine
where I will dance with a rude chemist.
They will be serving yams in my chamber
and cereal with no raisins whatsoever.
No Australians will be allowed to enter.

The carcasses are on the march again.
Saxophone solos are in the air.
There is a lion at the door with an injured
paw. The signs of love make me cringe.
I wish they hadn’t let me out on parole.

My wife is in the woods reading Molière
and eating croissants. She would not come
on the cruise, claiming without proof that
such voyages are never transcendent enough.
I continue eating éclairs and sticky buns.

This poem is not about love or pain. There
is no message. Except that there will be no
surprises on the patio tonight. Solitude is
trending. History makes me feel faint.
I would sacrifice my pension for your fruit bowl.

by Terence Winch

The sky was gray muck today
as the planes took off for the south.
The west is flooded. Elsewhere, the lakes
are drying up. We are eating bacon and egg
sandwiches, drinking coffee, our backs
aching, our knees torn up and twisted.

In the giant memory we keep entering
then exiting from, love is declared, waltzing
takes place, the music just goes on and on
till the early morning. The fiddle player leaves
with someone else’s fiddle. The box player
leaves, his instrument stuffed into
someone else’s accordion case.

The old lovers dance and joke in the hallway.
We shall eat squirrels and rub marijuana cream
on our sore bodies! In the background, a slide
show plays continuously. There we see our
past as a t.v. commercial, everyone smiling,
teeth sparkling, sorrow nowhere to be seen.

by Terence Winch

The exterminator was here again today.

He says he’s got a bad heart and his knees are shot.

We discuss mice and termites. I show him photos

of the bugs that came through the ceiling molding

one night last month when the temperature

went down to seven degrees. There was also

freezing rain. He says in thirty years of exterminating

creatures, he’s never seen a bug like this before.

He says not to worry about it. They probably won’t

be back. He’s getting a watchman implant next week.

He thinks I should get one too. I’m inclined to agree.

But I don’t know what he’s talking about.