June 10, 2017

Three Poems by Robin Wright: "Picnic," "In the Garden," and “Side Trip”

Robin Wright’s work has appeared in "Peacock Journal," "Unbroken Journal," "(b)OINK zine," "Communicator’s League," "Lost River Literary Magazine," "See Spot Run," "Rat’s Ass Review," "Quatrain.Fish," "Foliate Oak Literary Magazine," and "Amarillo Bay." Two of her poems were published in the University of Southern Indiana’s 50th anniversary anthology, "Time Present, Time Past." She has also co-written two novels with Maryanne Burkhard under the name B. W. Wrighthard: " Ghost Orchid" and "A Needle and a Haystack."






Picnic

The past cartwheels into the present
as you slip a glance at weathered pictures
housed in your wallet. Other children
of other days get tucked back in

while young son and daughter
from your new family
grab your hand and pull.

Nearby, a wheelbarrow cast aside.
Its once red sheen now covered
in rust. White roses spit petals
that wither and crumble.




In the Garden

A pebble travels in my shoe,
grass stains paint my knees,
hands press dirt in earthy prayer.

Hem of light falls from the skirt of day
as I toil beneath a thumbprint moon,
goose bumps riding my flesh.

Memory ignites the taste of smoke
and mint from an old lover.

My mind relives the wetness of his tongue,
a soft escape from the crowded
Greyhound bus of my mind.




Side Trip

Our Chevy glides into a gas station
of some small town. We face
dirty windows, smudged doors,
rusty water pooling in the bathroom.

This stop not part of our vacation plans
but one we make, nearly empty,
paper maps out of date, our argument
long past its expiration.

An attendant tips the brim of his cap,
fills our tank, tells us about the 350
in his ’69 Firebird, shakes his head,
says his wife moved in with the sheriff.

He longs to get away from this station.
If the lottery would just come through,
he’d take his Bird and fly right out of here.

He wipes grease from his hand. We shake it,
leave, think about Daytona Beach.
We’ll swim, laugh, sip drinks with umbrellas,
offer a toast, To Us. But on our minds,
the gas station, the man, his escape.



© Robin Wright







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