by Howie Good
It could’ve been the cat.
It could’ve been a woodchuck
the cat was chasing.
There aren’t any signed confessions
or calls of apology.
Remember phone cards?
Pretty soon no one will.
I gather up all that’s bent
or broken in the garden
into a kind of bouquet
and toss it in the garbage.
Some flowers are just better
than other flowers for cutting.
by Howie Good
The directions to the engagement party said
head west on Excelsior, take the third right onto Maple,
and continue to Greenfield.
No mention at all of swayback cows staring out
from behind barbed wire. Or such wind!
Like the mistaken zeal of Socrates’ executioners.
High up, a hawk aerobicized. Unless it was a crow.
Love itself was a kind of sweet tumult,
swigging Robitussin and wearing only one shoe.
