lack of bottle sufficient for message


you wearing the sunglasses of a total asshole, me looking to get past you, and the excuses almost sing themselves, louder than the radio preacher confounding himself, clearer than rain because of course it’s raining when we reach our hotelroom, where the TV stands on metal legs and holds your attention, while I live again for the darkness between commercials, the opposite of flicker, whatever that’s called. brief, black, quiet. the set regretting everything it saw and repeated, everything it never said, but unable to reckon with more than a second here and there. otherwise: noise and flash and counterfeit satisfaction. and your stare.

AMY BAGWELL’s poems are recently/forthcoming in The Eyewear Review, where is the river, Terminus Magazine, and Vallum: Contemporary Poetry. She makes text-based art, co-directs Wall Poems and Goodyear Arts, and teaches at CPCC in Charlotte.