Town Crier

Cats return home 

in bundles, like matchsticks 

and firewood, a lone broomstick 

surrounded by trash, rusty 

wheelbarrow left in mud 

for decades, yet just as good; 

Autumn watches summer 

stumble drunkenly across sand, 

while someone wheezes 

their final breath as the sun 

returns, enraged by clouds, 

ever resentful of shade.

We have been blinded 

by goodness, as things are always bad 

for someone; mice escape the hawk today 

but it will perish tomorrow; a tabby 

cradles a blue jay between her teeth, 

and no longer will anyone hear 

their beautiful music; a miracle 

has occurred and no one 

was around to witness it.

Men have gone mad, and the plumber 

has never been richer; he is replacing 

the local gestapo with armies of plungers, 

and ulcers have spread like a pandemic 

the world has never seen; the sewers 

are steaming, and we are all grateful 

a nameless person will climb down 

that unsung ladder. 

The machete splits apart bramble, 

and old retirees gamble enough treasure 

to drive destitute teenagers crazy, 

and grave diggers cede jealousy to life, 

prophets return like forgotten novels, 

name brands are riddled with botulism; 

dregs are joined by cracked images 

of once brilliant reflections; delirium 

and psychosis become a daily emotion; 

we return to the forest, another frontier 

for the mailman; we are claimed 

by a pantheon of defrosted gods; 

becoming dogs 

barking at the mirror. 

Brandon Shane is a poet, born in Yokosuka Japan. He is a writing instructor, and part time horticulturist. You can see his work in the Berlin Literary Review, Acropolis Journal, Grim & Gilded, Belfast Review, Marbled Sigh, RIC Journal, Heimat Review, Ink in Thirds, Dark Winter Lit, among many others. He would later graduate from Cal State Long Beach with a degree in English.