In the morning, sometimes, it looks like nobody’s been here for decades. You can better see the remnants too, at dawn; Rexall, dying neon, a metal post for tying horses to. I saw a glass-domed gumball machine in a museum – Really? Have we gotten old? We find each other in the remnants. As if when we were touched a magnet or alone were sewn into the hollowed out place. The downs syndrome children roam like vague angels. And when the waitress eats her bacon at the pick-up window, it looks like a ghost town again. Again what was deserted or what never came, becomes what was in the morning, sometimes.
Jennifer Flescher’s publications include The Harvard Review, Lit, Fulcrum, the blog of Best American Poetryand Poetry Daily. For ten years she edited and published the literary journal Tuesday; An Art Project. She holds an MFA in poetry and an MSJ. She writes and stands on her head daily.