the coming
when the wolves
creep into town
a quarter past
a fifth of whiskey
from the bottle
is gone,
the hills
hide their faces,
sharp teeth dangling like
stars,
rabbits slip sleep away
in their beds of blood,
and I sit inna room
dimmed with light,
unable to sleep
chewing on the world
full of war, hypocrisy,
deceit and murder,
the tense of jobless
and a foreclosure
paper on my table
just knowing that
awful newspaper
will soon be coming,
shotgun from a car window
missing the porch steps
and landing on the dew lawn,
six in the morning.
CP
Anthony Liccione lives in Texas with his two children. His poems have appeared in several print and online journals, and he has four collections of poetry books.
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