Red, wet, drops smear the arc
of the windshield’s murmuring blades.
It’s raining ants.
Otherwise, the glass is clear
as drinking water,
save for the thousand tiny legs,
flinching phantom limbs,
waving at me.
You know how it is.
Well, it isn’t like that.
It's different.
It's different.
___
The Poet: Brad Rose was born and raised in southern California, and lives in Boston. Brad’s poetry and fiction have appeared in: The Baltimore Review; Off the Coast; Third Wednesday; and other publications. Links to his poetry and fiction can be found at: http://bradrosepoetry.blogspot.com/ His chapbook of miniature fiction, “Coyotes Circle the Party Store,” can be read at: https://sites.google.com/site/bradroserhpchapbook/ Audio recordings of a selection of Brad’s published poetry can be heard here: https://soundcloud.com/bradrose1
