Poem: Ferry to Chappaquiddick
Don McLagan

Three cars, three minutes

each time, on time, just

in time, to midnight — metronome

for the separate island

releasing triptych cars which drive

twenty-five on one paved road

and less on dirt washboards

where rhythmed bumps punctuate

as fishermen, construction crews

returning shoppers buck and heave

on sand bunched like bedclothes

on a humid night when unquiet

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Poem: Landscaper in Growing Season
Donald Nitchie

This month’s flower girl stops traffic

in the garden center parking lot

in tight Carhartts and Felco holster,

wiping a smear of soil from her cheek

with clay-encrusted fingers. Where’s she been

all winter? On some exotic playa

down under, collecting seaglass? Or here

all along, holed up in a rental off Oak Lane

with only a wood stove and cable, plotting

meticulous scenarios of perennial displays.

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Poem: Ode to a Politician
Frank Elliott

I love to work a crowd from top to bottom

and as wide as they make em

as long as you’ve got ’em.

I love to work a crowd

that I can swim across—hand

over hand —

an ocean of hands . . .

of all kinds of colors . . .

and a thousand pairs of eyes

and they wink

as they press away

with a sea of smiles

to make room for me!

“hey-how’re you doin’?”

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Poem: When You Are Gone for A.
Jean Kelleher

Who will gather leaves for the children’s craft?

Who will sort the harmless reds from the poison?

Who will fold and unfold the octagonal star?

Who will care less for the flower than for its unfolding?

Who will look at a rock and see a king, a loser, a lost you?

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