a poem a day for a year #109

by Amy Turn Sharp


open window
throw the radio in the yard
like a scene from a movie
when a lover empties the suitcase
out a brownstone window
the lover scrambling below
apologizing
gathering
pants
belts
shoes
the sound and the silence
the radio still plugged in
hanging banging against the house
blaring the 90's melancholia
of my discontent
songs that remind me of you
certain ones
they are now in the dirt though
torture games for the squirrels
for the insects
on the soft spring ground
and my neighbor
cocks his head at me
when I shut the window
and the squirrels all cry
and smoke Camel Lights
leaned up like losers
against my house