Bio Note: I’m a retired professor of Spanish, but I’ve had a checkered career. I’ve experienced life on the high seas and in various ports of call, and have worked as sales/production liaison for the export department of a liquor manufacturer. My poetry writing is something I’ve been doing only in the last ten years and have been published in Baily’s Beads, Crossways Literary Magazine (Ireland), The Fictional Café and others in the U.S. and abroad. Writing poetry can be a lonely occupation. I’m interested in Verse-Virtual as a connection to other poets.
Her eyes cast down, Hurling silent thunderclaps, Coat slung over her shoulder, She trudges along that blacktop road, Which memory turns to dusty trail, Leaving me to founder in her roiling wake. I see her shoes, no, Her bare feet, Stir up swirls of dust On a dirt road Through thorny hills. Her despondent heels churn Clouds of cinnamon That hover Like hallowed haloes Around her calves, (around my soul) And turn her jeans From blue To bitter beige. The bright golden morning, With its honeyed breezes, Collapses Before the onslaught Of a baleful black wind That whirls Around my dusty heart.
Originally published in Baily’s Beads, January 25, 2017
©2021 Clark Zlotchew
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