The Shortcut, poem by Teresa White

      In this peachy dust-blown light
      where a vanishing point sees all
      the way to the river

      here
      a single shoe
      its tongue talked out

      there
      a desperate dog
      wound ‘round his chain

      And right before I turn
      toward open sidewalk leading
      to your house

      the yellow umbilicus
      of a telephone
      appears

      tossed so carelessly
      upon a pile
      of limp baby clothes

      three-legged chairs
      old magazines and all the paraphernalia
      of a home

      that I wonder
      what final call
      was made

      before
      the cops came
      and threw them out.


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Stéphanie DeMontalk
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