The whole day was like
a yellow light.
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
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 kgnewman.com. He lives in Castle Rock, Colorado, with his wife and two kids.