KG Newman

Past Due

The whole day was like

decelerating through

a yellow light.

Somebody let

all the horses out

from the fairgrounds.

Driving around them,

by the open space,

I thought I saw a turkey


in the barbed wire fence

but passing by

it was just

a tattered black trash bag.

All the clarity made

for hypocrites’ kryptonite:

Setting up for an ending

where we forgive each other

for everything

before lightning

sets the porch on fire.

Across All Fronts

I am crammed in on an infinite light rail,

stopping from war to war,

dreaming while standing

with my eyes forced open

of making an escape road

from the parallel river

as coronavirus loops like a gif

and my wife’s gloved hands

hold a goldfish like a promise

in a small bag of water.

The Foible Fumes

The scenario in which I go mute from smoking

really isn’t all that bad

until the methadone jazz runs out:

I’m trying to scream in my sleep,

thrashing like a feral son

held against the chest of his language-less dad.

I’m both the son and the dad, which startles me.

In lucidity I can’t tell if this is epic dream or nightmare;

upwards, the light’s stuck in the canopy layer.

Later, I must have the computer speak for me.

It matches my voice from podcasts, pre-self-destruction,

but my son loses his earpiece after a month.

Eventually I stand hands at my sides, gentle as men turning

into trees, and think. I see my son and know he still loves me.

He is gathering moss to dress an unspecified wound.

KG Newman is a sportswriter who covers the Broncos and Rockies for The Denver Post. His first three collections of poems are available on Amazon. The Arizona State University alum is on Twitter @KyleNewmanDP and more info and writing can be found at He lives in Castle Rock, Colorado, with his wife and two kids.

Recent Posts

See All

Sam Bickford

RIP MEEG <3 —and seasons don’t change but bleed through each other—and being in bed is a laxative for risk—and he didn’t sleep—and I try to place that last phone call— and his gravel pitch shifted th

Laura Ohlmann

Wellspring I pour Mom a bath of oatmeal suds and keep my forearm submerged to judge what is too hot and what will soothe her. She needs help taking a bath now. I undress her, the way she once held my

Abigail Swoboda

Video Store Guillotine After the razor nicks the back of my neck, I pet the wound for the rest of the week & I google “horror movie heroine” because I want to be hot as in un-murderable— as in big swe