Dull Fangs -ByNicholas Arthur
1. The apartment fills with far off sounds of the city at night. Faintly, like a candle that’s flickering a few more times before fading to smoke. The drunks slam car doors and dogs howl out at raccoons. I sit on the balcony and get lost in the glow of the nearby streetlight.
2. Summer radiates warmth but moves to a lazy crawl as the weeks roll by. Warmth becomes annoying: Hot, sticky and uncomfortable even when you’re still. The unrelenting sun fades into cool breeze, accelerating into a grim chill. Summer is a feeling that rarely meets the reality. Summer goes by too quickly.
3. I listen to public radio as I shiver in the car. I move my finger across the condensation, drawing faces in the window. I want the minutes to slow, so I won’t have to work just yet.
4. I meet ghosts at night. Ones who mumble softly among the rows of corn. They don’t make a lot of sense, their words lost to time and isolation. The fields they tended kept tidy and
harvested faster as things sped forward. Fields away from pavement, where they can slip up through the roots
and float among our dreams.
5. I am pierced armor. Darkness creeping in, knees buckling. I am defeat. Rushing sadness, giving way to delight of the unknown. I am leaves in the sun. Legs spring-y and tingling, moving about cautiously. I am new again.
6. Night lingers like smoke trailing off fingers. The city’s bright lights dance to themselves
miles away. Night drifts across open fields, resting easy and content.
7. I’m nearing the end of a movie. One I didn’t like much as it ambled by. It was a bit longer than I’d like. The ending made up for it. There’s a kind of beauty when a nice sunset pokes out after the chaos that proceeded it. No matter predictable it is.
8. Warmth works its way through my body. Alone on Saturday night. My work is done and I’m playing crackling jazz records loudly
for no one in particular. The northern winter eases up a bit, life’s glow returns.
9. The long winter chill softens as leaves and petals move toward new warm sunbeams. Tomorrow is here and better things are up ahead.
10. There’s comfort in the loud klacking of the typewriter my Dad found for free at a garage sale. Like a conversation. A reassuring, yet completely irrational, one that tells me to keep at it. I haven’t felt like it lately and small inanimate gestures like this help. On the laptop it’s all hollow silence. I feel like my words are being cast over an abandoned well. They float quick to the bottom, fading from view.
Photo by Kathleen Trombley
About Nicholas Arthur is 26 years old and currently lives in Michigan. He is a Wayne State University graduate. Along with poetry he dabbles in music, writing and art. When he is not writing he can be found looking in the bargain bin at the record store, drinking coffee far too late at night, and eating breakfast any time he pleases. He has a cat named Simba.