Flinging Our Ties Over Our Shoulders
Trying to keep up with one another, our shoes kept biting us. We pulled them off and they ran away.
Arm in arm, crossing the parking lot together, we begin to envision the world as it will go on without us and, barefoot now, flinging our ties over our shoulders, we carry on.
No One to Blame
People named — are generally charming, often excelling at horseback riding, berry picking, announcements, choosing cake decorations, house painting, portraying heroic characters and making twisted balloon sculptures. On the other hand they tend to have difficulties with fallen soufflés served cold, bankers who drive expensive cars while denying any wrongdoing, Bozo look-alike contests, dishes thrown across hotel rooms, abruptly ended engagements, slammed doors, saying sorry first.
Not Every Letter of the Alphabet Appears
The old dog doesn’t follow the curve, he walks straight
through the tall weeds to join the path ahead of us,
demonstrating an understanding of the concepts of space,
time, and the conservation of energy.
I once had the ability to think of every day as Saturday
Then came a time when getting through all the days became work,
and I grew tired
Now a chance to begin again, today is Saturday —
Morgan Harlow’s poems, stories and other writing have appeared in Washington Square, Seneca Review, The Tusculum Review, The Moth, Blackbox Manifold and elsewhere. She is the author of a poetry collection, Midwest Ritual Burning, published in 2012 by Eyewear.