by Tim Young

the cracks in the concrete look like

rivers or highways crossing

from the air but only a few feet

below me,

a couple of beers, a patty melt

and the night turns 80 degrees

Imagine the traffic and the water


wide, fast, and slow,

so the fan blows, my mind goes

and my son helps me to see a thought explode

Standing on the banks and the


Stranded in the flow

of the horizon shining like a street light 

wanting to go,

the traffic makes a woeful sound

but trapped in time

like an insect in amber.