an acrid smell of gasoline —The Moose, Elizabeth Bishop
In time there will be no housesand with them no garagesand with them no four-square windowswith the smell of putty and glassthey will not be thereno oily odor of gasoline on cementin the shady space beneath the carnone of it will beand there will be no coming homefrom a late-night driveand with that no speeding carsor night-defying headlightshovering inches above the groundon multiple lane freewaysthat will not be thereand with them will go the roadside dinersand with them there’ll be no griddle cakesno burned coffee in chipped white cupsjust the black no longer hotholding all the secrets.
Henry Crawford is the author of two collections of poetry, American Software (CW Books, 2017), and the Binary Planet (Word Works, 2020) and a chapbook, The Little Box Theater (printF Press 2022). His poem, “The Fruits of Famine,” won first prize in the 2019 World Food Poetry Competition. His work has been published in Boulevard, Copper Nickel, Rattle, the Southern Humanities Review, and many others. He was nominated for the 2022 Rhysling Award by the Science Fiction Poetry Association. He also serves as a co-host of the Café Muse Literary Salon Online. His website is http://henrycrawfordpoetry.com/