[No] possibility of sleeping past dawn, I stretch and sit up in the
[king-s]ized bed we bought before we moved into the house on the hill.
[No] other furniture in that big empty house, all our possessions—jammed like
[king s]almon swimming upstream to mate—in the back of a moving truck with
[no] clue when it would arrive. Lines up my legs—like eyebrow pencil stoc-
[kings]—from the sheets remind me of the stories Mom would tell of teens
[in] shoulder pads and bare legs scavenging for nylon and newspaper, while
[America] in those sepia-toned days battled small men who would be tyrants.
by Gale Naylor
Poetry by Gale 