Shutta Crum
Joseph McNair
Laszlo Slomovits
Joanie Freeman
Chris Lord
Elisavietta Ritchie
Gerald Clark
Karyn M. Wolven
Duane Locke
Mervyn M. Solomon
Paul B. Roth
Sue Budin
Running Cub
Silvia Scheibli
Geoffrey Philp
Marilyn Churchill
Jerry Blanton
Steve Beaulieu
Don Hewlett

Fred Wolven


Three times he done her wrong
then out the door
not on a dime but on a rhyme,

the song that soothes her when he's gone.
Sometimes blue, sometimes
a green storm.

Black coffee, ruby robe
he gave her, warms her
in the draft he leaves walking,
wailing through his horn.

Notes drift up like bubbles.
The blues are her man gone.
The blues are beer and a rim of foam.
The blues are night and silk and a high heel lifted
as he kisses, wiping sadness from her tongue.

Three lines the same, then a refrain.
Someone done somebody wrong.


So soft,
grey like clouds or
cotton socks.

You leave me these momentos
when snow falls
and you have extra warmth.

You leave me
the round curl of your preening,
my beauty

who lies on the sill,
your purr, the hum of the furnace
lulling me, rocking me.

Sue Budin, Ann Arbor


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