Thief by Terry Spohn
Father was a typewriter, Mother was a cake.
The doctor was a shadow on the table.
The moon tiptoed over the house
and every few minutes another bewildered soul
drifted past like a lost balloon on the breeze.
I could hear Father complaining
the city was gone, but the lawn needed mowing.
I was a doll in a girl’s purse at the circus,
alone as the last moonlit tooth in a bum’s mouth.
The thief had a porkpie hat and I awoke to find
that everything I’d lost was still lost.
Terry Spohn's short stories, prose poems and poetry have appeared in Rattle, The Sow's Ear Poetry Review, The North American Review, Mississippi Review, Ascent, Grub Street, Oyster Boy Review, Eclectica, and other places, including several anthologies. He lives with his wife, Dionne, in Escondido, California.
Father was a typewriter, Mother was a cake.
The doctor was a shadow on the table.
The moon tiptoed over the house
and every few minutes another bewildered soul
drifted past like a lost balloon on the breeze.
I could hear Father complaining
the city was gone, but the lawn needed mowing.
I was a doll in a girl’s purse at the circus,
alone as the last moonlit tooth in a bum’s mouth.
The thief had a porkpie hat and I awoke to find
that everything I’d lost was still lost.
Terry Spohn's short stories, prose poems and poetry have appeared in Rattle, The Sow's Ear Poetry Review, The North American Review, Mississippi Review, Ascent, Grub Street, Oyster Boy Review, Eclectica, and other places, including several anthologies. He lives with his wife, Dionne, in Escondido, California.
