Summer 2010

Table of Contents - Vol. VI, No. 2


Poetry    Fiction    Reviews   

Franz K. Baskett



I have grown used
To the street below my bedroom,
The voices just beyond understanding,
The occasional shout or raised voice,
The laughter of my left neighbor,
High, gay and ironic, like sleigh bells.

And to the tire sounds on the pavement
Sushing like the sea with a mouthful of sand.
I can almost pick-out the make of the car
Its age and state of repair,
The mood of the driver.

If I close the window,
The silence is almost too strong for me
To fall asleep beside books
On burgundy sheets.

The ancients feared fresh air
Not knowing what might ride in it,
But I need the wind in my bed.

Sighing, turning over.


© Franz K. Baskett



Poetry    Fiction    Reviews   

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