Rob MacDonald    

 

Fog, Conjugated

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For Comfort

 

Fog, Conjugated

It was too foggy for us to see
that the forecast called for fog.
When the conditions are right,

I levitate, too.  Sometimes
the sad kids float together
through the center of town.

You’re putting gasoline in your car,
and you’re alone, and for a moment
they hold you, and no one can see it.

 

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Minimal personality
disorder, mid-morning
blindness, mild aversion
to yellow #5— 

this is what you get
for dating a guy
who plays dumbbone
in a stupid band.

Arguing in an alley,
and two elderly lovers
in leather jackets
throw change at you.

 

For Comfort

You—a bit dodgy, nearly untouchable.
All sweatshirt and hammock
while the sun burns out.

We can go on like this,
on and lonely on, together,
or like ourselves, surrounded.


MacDonald

Rob MacDonald lives in Boston and is the editor of Sixth FinchHis poems can be found in Gulf Coast, DIAGRAMSink ReviewiOinter|ruptureH_NGM_N and other journalsHe has books forthcoming from Rye House Press and Racing Form Press.