She’s always in the background, that tiny seed of
doubt driving us all to lose control. The weary wagon
lumbers on, imploring playgrounds to remain open
and highways to run as plain as the sun and straight
as the lines of geometry. But what if I tell a shameless lie—
just make one up—right here on the spot? A guarantee that
despite how tight the hitch is bound or where the hangman
hangs his noose, there’s always a charming rainbow
crayoning along the landscape. And with Spring’s renaissance
and all her fucking little flowers, poets may now salvage
the words of Alan Watts and David Carradine, or they can
shoot the dice with Amazon and have their follies
fall by the door. The door that leads to another
door . . . and another door. . . and another.
Keith Gorman is a poet, guitarist, and factory worker living near the foothills of The Great Smokey Mountain National Park in Eastern Tennessee. His poetry has appeared in or is forthcoming in The Delta Review, The California Quarterly Review, The Main Street Rag, Plainsongs Magazine, and Muddy River Poetry Review.