May 20, 2017

One poem by Gordon Hilgers

Keep it short

You worked for the paper awhile, but your
sweeter, driftwood flourishes would never hit
either print or fruition.  You would pen them,
book reviews, you all of twenty-six, but Bob
sat behind his smile to inform you that, no way,
not enough room.  Word count is important,
he said, more important than content.  Outside,
you sometimes watched the bevies of them,
pigeons, how the birds wheeled.  Some danger,
possibly a red-tailed hawk, had alerted them,
their scavenger ways interrupted, an editorial,
yes, there on the walkway, now bloody feathers
to be lifted, ghosts, wind their final breath, not
one word about it.  Stiller afternoons, you see,
when you can go no farther, you sit right here--
crazed creatures, beasts, sky bluer, no clouds,
only wings, the maw of moments memorized.

GORDON HILGERS lives in Dallas, Texas, in an area The Los Angeles Times calls "the Ellis Island of Texas" because no less than 30 languages are spoken in the neighborhood.  The Chiron Review, Edgar Allan Poet Journal, Texas Observer, Sequestrum, Deathlist 5, as well as several anthologies, including Fresh Cuts 2: The Skinning Volume and The Art To Be Human, also have published his poetry and stories.  

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