Two Poems
Howie Good

Talk Therapy

Yes, it helps to talk,
but you want

that kind of help?
Night is here,

and flames,
and we could be

jabbing our tongues
down a flower's throat.


Dance of the Iron Shoes

The stairs creaked under his weight. He was carrying a small black satchel. My mother kept herself busy elsewhere in the house. If I lifted my head off the pillow, I could hear other children playing on the sidewalk. He suddenly filled the doorway of my bedroom. How you feeling? he asked. Sunlight clanged against the window. Flies crawled around inside my mouth. It was often like this back then, the sky brightening just enough for me to see what wasn't there.

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