Four Rows of Seats

Four Rows of Seats

I lay on my back,
stomach an empty
circus tent, stripes and all

in the shadow of the windows
security bars, little diamonds
in dim rain.

There are no occupants,
just faint music in the tent.

The sand on the ring is hard
packed by feet, there is no garbage
in the bleachers.

I do not know where the performers
have gone, was there an audience?

In the dim light, I roll up
to the water glass, take a sip,
try to ignore that damn circus tent.



Hey Death,

I feel your eyes on my run,
in the pre-bed meditation
conducted by my phone.

The coffee tastes a lot like
you this morning. 

We should talk more, or text
at least. But we can’t, because
I have no say in the matter.

Remember when you visited
my newlywed dreams and
I died on the subway again and
again, a whole train consumed
by dirt? Google told me it wasn’t
possible, but Google doesn’t know
you very well, does it?

I think I’ve seen you twice, really,
on the bow of a boat, in an MRI
machine. I couldn’t pick you
out in a crowd.

Caitlin Thomson is the co-founder of The Poetry Marathon, an international writing event. Her work has appeared in numerous anthologies and literary journals including: The Adroit Journal, The Penn Review, Barrow Street, and Radar.  You can learn more about her writing at www.caitlinthomson.com.

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