Ann Arbor Review


Amit Parmessur
Elisavietta Ritchie
Donal Mahoney
Fahredin Shehu
Richard Kostelanetz
Alex Ferde
Michelle Bailat-Jones
Duane Locke
Chris Lord
Nahshon Cook
Al Ortelani
Shutta Crum
Ajibola Tolase
Silvia Scheibli
Laszlo Slomovits
Emmanuel Samson
Lyn Lifshin
Running Cub
Nikita Parik

Alan Britt
John Grey
Bhisma Upreti
Paul B. Roth
Jennifer Burd
Sunday Michael
Michael H. Brownstein
Ali Znaidi

Richard Gartee
Kanev Peycho

Engjell I. Berisha

Fred Wolven
Petraq Risto
Carolyn Elias
Alabi Oyedeji

Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2015 Francis Ferde
All rights revert back to each poet.
--editor / Southeastern Florida

AAR history note:  in print 1967 - 1980.  Irregular publications 1980 - 2004.  As ezine 2004 - present. Most of 47 years all together....

Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub

Fred Wolven

Submissions via e-mail:



Valet attendants jog the sidewalk, keys
in hand, their red shirts clinging
like abandoned newspapers. A leaden

Neptune raises his trident from a fountain.
A taxi slows in front of Houston’s—
a curtain of rain

spraying from the tires to the curb. The driver
pulls into the gutter, front wheels snug
against the sidewalk. A couple dashes

to the cab, the girl lifting her legs and sliding
easily into the backseat.  Her friend ducks after her,
both are laughing into their cellphones.


On Saturday night, tough kids from the Zip Code
mill along the sidewalks from the Cheesecake
to the Cinemark. They search for something

they own, congregate like gunshots in a parking lot.
They push, strike out at one another, gangly reflections
in the windows of boutiques. The streets

have a price tag. Tourists sip Starbucks,
lick circles around double dips of
The yellow taxis are replaced—police
angled in intersections. The heat has baked

the streets all evening, roping the flower
beds with crime tape. The promise of more rain
falls through the lights like pepper spray.


The water in the street runs into Brush Creek,
landscaped with pools and falls, gondolas
rocking likes buoys. Street musicians

tune their guitars on the corner. The sax man
cuts a riff penned when Boss Pendergast
built the spillway with his Ready-Mix.   

The run-off mirrors the art gallery.
Last week a heron landed, balanced briefly
on one thin leg before winging east. He knows
nothing of the “Boss” or social demarcation.

His wings pump like the triangle of a bellows,
a photo op of the city at dusk—
embers of light heating up along the Parkway.



Al Ortolani, Lenexa, Kansas


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