Brenton Booth

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Dusk

Looking at a print of an Edward
Hopper painting on my kitchen
wall. There’s a haggard man
working alone at a gas station.
She’s still in bed. Will remain there
the entire day, the same as
yesterday, and the day before. I am
clean shaven for the first time in
over two years. Noticing more grey
hairs than ever. Her operation
hasn’t been scheduled yet. The
doctors repeatedly putting
it off, saying there’s nothing more
they can do. Rarely leaving
the house anymore. Transforming
into Hopper’s forlorn woman
eternally peering through
the sweeping windowpanes at
the dazzling morning light.
While I pump gas on a forgotten
Midwest highway at dusk. Coins
jangling in my quivering
hands. Counting down the frozen
seconds, till dawn.

High Times

The final day of high school
we had no classes. Just

meandered about the school
sneaking heavenly hits of

Tennessee whiskey and grass;
waiting on the acid tabs to

kick in. I noticed the principal
advancing in our direction;

straight, sober, in perfectly
laundered shirt and trousers.

The principal is coming: act
normal! I tensely whispered in

Toby’s right ear, slamming hard
against an unseen steel pole

moments after. The principal
immediately stopped. Everything

O.K there, boys? he said with a
large grin, continuing around

the corner. Affectionately telling
the teachers in the crowded

staffroom later what he saw.
Remembering their final

day of high school. That magic
period before work, bills:

real-life obligation. A time we
all wished would never end.

Brenton Booth lives in Sydney, Australia. Poetry of his has appeared in New York Quarterly, North Dakota Quarterly, Chiron Review, Main Street Rag, Naugatuck River Review, Heavy Feather Review, and Nerve Cowboy. He has two full length collections available from Epic Rites Press.

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