Quiet now.
The flag-shredding wind
has passed. Door left open,
you are gone.
The flat voices.
Searching for how it could be,
knowing how it would be instead.
Evening full of dogwood eyes,
shadow-trees flared
as the van left.
The bell calls and again calls, rumbles
of a great engine, the grind
and clack of each car.
The dark is what it signifies.
Mute. Starless.
David W Green currently is a clinician working at a community health center in Boston, MA with Spanish-speaking people from the Dominican Republic and Puerto Rico. Born in Detroit, he was seven when his family moved to Venezuela where he lived until age 26. When writing poems, he sometimes composes in either Spanish or English. His writing reflects the duality of his multi-lingual thinking and speaking. His previously published poems have appeared in the Lyric Review, Bellevue Literary Review, Pangyrus, Big Wing Review, Eastern Iowa Review, and Puerto de Sol.
