Poetry by Howie Good

Autumn Sonata

When the tree, in high dudgeon, suddenly
pushes through the polished wood floor,

and the congregation of small scared birds
disbands in confusion,

when the deaf despise the hearing,
and the night janitor at the Museum of Mad Ideas

wipes with special care
the shatterproof glass under which

Hitler’s voice rages,
time’s up,

and I shed my coat on the ground
and lie down beside her,

as we curl gratefully into each other,

what is real is whatever is
faded, or broken, or falling.

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