a poem by Howie Good

Who but you would love
the clutter of meaningless detail,

the way the sun wriggles
on ripples of water?

I can say nothing about crying
that someone hasn’t already said.

A shadow,

expecting to find only a child at home,
climbs the stairs

with a mouthful of nails
and a cold-forged hammer.

Howie Good is the author of the full-length poetry collections Lovesick (Press Americana, 2009), Heart With a Dirty Windshield (BeWrite Books, 2010), and Everything Reminds Me of Me (Desperanto, 2011).