THIS IS NOT A POEM
by Rowan Beaird
with illustration by Matthew Rickart

My Uncle Brian, who lived in our attic and drank orange juice, said every good thing – sex, the
elation of success, a pop song, ice cream – is over in a matter of minutes. I was sure of this was
when I was seven and me and my mom and my brother were skimming down a highway in
Arkansas noting how pretty this day looked, pretty as persimmons, as newly sanded wood, and
my brother began saying everything he saw: “Passing blue car, passing Lulu’s Pancakes, passing
old gramma, passing garbage.” And my mom looked down at him and said “That is poetry,
honey,” and I said “No, it’s not.” And a couple of minutes later our car broke down with a whir
and a thud and my mom yelled “Jesus fucking Christ!” and I knew then, spitting my tack of gum
onto the asphalt. That is when I knew.

 

 

 

CUBICLE
by Paul Smith

Why rant about
Cubicles?
Mine is comfy
I throw parties
Virtual parties
People come from
Madagascar
Peoria
And Australia
We have poetry slams
And coke (BYOB)
Don’t tell me
I’ve nothing to do
Plus I have Microsoft Office
Adobe Acrobat
& Kaspersky
Which helps protect me
From you-know-what
There are pictures
Of my kids
Somewhere around here

 

 

 

 

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Rowan Beaird‘s fiction has appeared in The Missing Slate and Compose. She is the former Program Manager of Grub Street in Boston, and is currently heading back to America after a year teaching English in Japan.

 

Matthew Rickart draws in ballpoint pen for friends and family. He is a future dog owner.

 

Paul Smith writes poetry & fiction. He lives in Skokie, Illinois with his wife Flavia. He believes that brevity is the soul of something he read about once, and whatever that something was, it should be cut in half immediately.

 

 

 

 

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