NO LONGER IN SERVICE

 

I still obsess when it comes to being completely disappointed. You didn't come as planned. Again. I laid in my grandmother's bed on the seventh floor of her betrayed apartment building high above the entire stuck-in-shit-world by the water. I could feel my heart ticking like a suspicious black leather bag completely unnoticed under some busy inner-city bridge. I could smell the stale, misty, dead fish harbor feeling like an eye freshly plucked from the chopped-off head of some unfortunate red herring. I heard the sound of seagulls laughing at me, their shrill voices scaling the sides of the building, like the sound of resin being scraped out of some old used crack pipe, for the third or fourth time. You calling to apologize.

Bryon D. Howell currently resides in Connecticut. Mr. Howell's work has appeared in PULSE, poeticdiversity, and Red River Review. Soon, you'll be able to catch him in The Houston Literary Review and Yellow Mama.

Dance to Death, Issue VI

©2008 Sorrowland Press and all respective artists within.