Gary Duehr Survivor

Survivor

Imagine there’s a girl Who’s in a party dress, her world An empty street. It’s all of her existence: Unframed, unlimited. There's a sense It’s late in the afternoon, those skinny shadows Falling from her legs and stop sign. But who knows? It could be early morning. Let’s zoom in for a closer view: The storefront grates are down, except for two: A rug place and a liquor store—which must be open, otherwise They'd be shut tight. Her downcast eyes Stare at the ground. You feel That time has paused, or started to congeal. On the curb, a crumpled pack Of cigarettes will never get picked up; in a window, a stack Of jumbled carpets, like an octopus, Reaches out for her. It’s either them or us. Like a horror movie, everything is frozen into place. The girl? The lone survivor of the human race.

Gary Duehr

Gary Duehr has taught poetry and writing at Boston University, Lesley University, and Tufts University. His MFA is from the University of Iowa Writers Workshop.