an acrid smell of gasoline
               —The Moose, Elizabeth Bishop

In time there will be no houses
and with them no garages
and with them no four-square windows
with the smell of putty and glass
they will not be there
no oily odor of gasoline on cement
in the shady space beneath the car
none of it will be
and there will be no coming home
from a late-night drive
and with that no speeding cars
or night-defying headlights
hovering inches above the ground
on multiple lane freeways
that will not be there
and with them will go the roadside diners
and with them there’ll be no griddle cakes
no burned coffee in chipped white cups
just the black no longer hot
holding 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