issue 30 > poetry > robbins

My phone in hand I contemplate the mess:
The wreckage of a settled life defiled.
Drawers gape open, scraps of paper cry
Havoc and betrayal—all that’s left
Are picture frames that once held smiles and deeds—
Everything is spilled. The unpaid bills,
Accounts now coming due. All principle
And dignity are lost. I pay no heed.
The officer beside me utters words
Of sympathy as I begin to list
The things amiss and all the missing things.
He eyes what’s left and coughs; it is absurd
To mourn what’s lost. It’s disarray that stings—
And fear that my exposure will persist.






Also by Hollis Robbins:

Sonnet: Epithalamium Dissent