Tattoos

He sits
outside
of a store,
drunk,
wearing a wife beater.
He holds
a bag of beer
in
one hand
and a cell phone
in the other.
He tells me
he's
waiting
for a ride.
I notice
his last name
tattooed
across his arm
and a scar
on his
neck.
The phone rings.
"Where the
fuck are you?"
he yells.
We sit there
for a few more minutes,
waiting.
Eventually,
a car pulls up.
He gets into it,
sets down his
beer,
and waves goodbye.
They take off,
into
the darkness,
into the unknown,
into
oblivion.

The Ginger Collect

One of my poems, "The Plague", was just published in the new issue of The Ginger Collect. You can view it here:


https://thegingercollect.com/issue-three-the-ginger-collect/issue-three-poetry/theplague/

The Hurricane

Cars pile up
on the highway,
bumper to bumper.
Everyone is out
looking
for gas
and water.
The whole county
seems caught
in some
wild
apocalypse.
They say
the wind
could tear
your roof off.
They say
the flooding
will be over
our heads.
Everywhere
is the sound
of
beeping horns.
People shout
into cell phones
like maniacs.
Maybe
these are
End Times.
I walk
into a store
filled with people;
I buy
a can of soda.
A pretty girl
with a big smile
stands
behind the counter.
If we're
going to die,
I'd like to die
quietly,
next to her,
in a warm,
comfortable bed.
She grins
and hands me
my change.
I walk
outside
into the chaos
of the coming storm.