Jennifer Cahill earned a Masters of Science in Administrative Studies from Boston College in 2008. She has recently published with the Arkansas Technical College, “The Foxy Neutrino” (2020), The Voices Project “Dusk Colored Wings” (August 25th, 2020) and with Tempered Runes, Bluing the Blade “Gods Feast on Lost Moons” (December 2020). She lives with her kitten “Tilly” in Massachusetts.
Let’s get into the car
and try to sleep. Please brush
the strands of your hair
and wash the mustard
from the torn upholstery.
Don’t snag the hems
of your jeans. Those are worn,
yet they look like the ripped
jeans I saw in the store
window, priced at 210.00.
You know this car will not run-
it gives us a home,
for now. Put those pamphlets
on the window to give us shade.
We shall not be seen.
You know, yesterday
a jogger tripped
over the grocery cart
I had near me, while
I sat on the beach wall.
He felt his calf, shin;
wiped his hands of sand,
glanced at the ocean. The sun
was spreading diamonds
on the waves. The crests
looked like cloud-bursts, the drops
so salty; the sea
the tint of a mountain
blue-bird. The shores here are hues
of coal; of dark skin.
The man removed
my basket from the sidewalk,
placed it in the near-
empty trash can.
He re-tied his sneakers, wiped
his brow with his shirt.
He became a shadow
against the Mediterranean
sky, the umber cliffs.
Poetry in this post: © Jennifer Cahill
Published with the permission of Jennifer Cahill