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April 16, 2021

3 Poems

Danny Caine

My Wife Tells me that Thinking of it as a “Bedtime Battle” Won’t Help us Make Any Progress Towards a More Peaceful Evening Routine with our Toddler

Bedtime blockade
Bedtime blitz
Bedtime battery
Bedtime breach
Bedtime skirmish
Bedtime surge
Bedtime siege
Bedtime ambush
Bedtime attack
Bedtime offensive
Bedtime retreat
Bedtime rout
Bedtime casualty
Bedtime surrender


The Art of Being a Tourist at Home

“How did I get here?”
-The Talking Heads

I can’t find a fucking ATM. I can’t read
any of these signs. I can’t tell which way
is North. I don’t understand this food.
The locals are downright hostile. I can’t
get this phone to work. What’s the wifi
password? Why is this line so long? Why
didn’t we plan for this? I think someone
just stole my wallet. Where did you go?
I can’t believe how much this room costs.
I can’t find my camera and something
beautiful is happening.  


Midwest Sentimental

after Nathaniel Grann

There are spoons to hang on the wall
and spoons to set the table. The garage
is for cars and old bikes and tennis balls
that hang at windshield height. Sometimes
somebody graduates and the garage
is tarped and tabled with plastic spoons.
A few years ago dad decided he didn’t like
doing that many dishes so Thanksgiving
was on paper plates. Good ones, though.
Chinet. The fireplace is for photos, framed
or lined up stiffly in dresses and rented
tuxedos while moms sip wine in the kitchen.
The door is always open so the dogs can
smear their noses. The door is for leaving.