portion of the artwork for Chris Garson's poetry

Places to Stay for a While
Chris Garson

I left a hand of crazy eights

At the table, not so certain

As to what the idea was—

Whether to ask

To please be excused,

Or wait

For blackbirds baked in pies

To fly, as per rumor.



I turned the afternoon away,

The white, the scatter

Of accident.



I’m someone standing somewhere

For whatever reason, would be

Your best guess. A man

Who might go somewhere else

And stand there also for a time.



A word:

Accrue.



I would almost swear to any truth,

Look someone in the eye

And try to see how it might be all right,

Just to be alive for a while longer—

The trees all flying shadows

Over the squares of sidewalk.


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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 42 | Fall 2013