Chris Roberts-Antieau © 2008 All Rights Reserved
After the War
What with all the cold fronts, sunspots, one
never knew where the troposphere was or how
strong the coffee’d be. Frequently the ceiling
was too low to land, so people coming in
had to circle. Then it was back to lipping sweet
pearwood fipples, the glow of vacuum tubes,
strains of minor symphonies, reception
fuzzy. Far from a rumored city, rooms
of suspicion, people listened in on a party line.
The very ones who wouldn’t dream
of intruding at the door tried not to breathe.
Were glad, or sad, as required.
Claudia Burbank's honors include the 10th Annual Inkwell Award judged by Alice Quinn, a fellowship from the State of New Jersey, Beullah Rose Award finalist, and two Pushcart Prize nominations. Her poems are published or forthcoming in Sycamore Review, Tar River Poetry, New Letters and Subtropics.
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