Noah Falck
2 poems
**
from Homemade Engines from a Dream
The ants scuttle in the produce drawer.
The neighborhood kids have snuck out again,
fireworks in the alley,
bricks against garage doors, through windows.
It doesn’t bother me; I am asleep at the wheel
dreaming in pleather cowboy boots.
I’ve let the moon off its leash
where it has sprinted up the stairs
to the highest point in the city.
It looks down on me
and notices a chip on my shoulder.
When I realize this for myself
I fumble for my flashlight, slipping
in pleather, a tattoo of a cockroach
gleaming on my lower back.
It’s only 1 a.m. as the ants
scuttle in the produce drawer.
**
Missing You Is One Drink Too Many
Sometimes a romantic gleam
is given off by neon lights
and sometimes she separates her slurs
with repeated words
with repeated words
she exits and hits the sidewalk
like a tree limb struck by lightning,
drool fizzling at the base of her mouth.
In the alley a quartet of barking dogs
leave echoes as dumpsters fill with the odds
and ends of the weekend. In the fetal position
she thinks of her buried husband, the hundreds
of pounds of dirt between them. And like last night
and the night before she is a fog of alcoholic energy,
gripped in unawareness
trying to feel like a happy-ever-after.
**
return to sawbuck 1.8
**
Noah Falck currently teaches Language and Thought in Dayton, Ohio. Some of his poems are forthcoming in LIT, Past Simple, Gulf Coast, Barn Owl Review, and elsewhere.
**
from Homemade Engines from a Dream
The ants scuttle in the produce drawer.
The neighborhood kids have snuck out again,
fireworks in the alley,
bricks against garage doors, through windows.
It doesn’t bother me; I am asleep at the wheel
dreaming in pleather cowboy boots.
I’ve let the moon off its leash
where it has sprinted up the stairs
to the highest point in the city.
It looks down on me
and notices a chip on my shoulder.
When I realize this for myself
I fumble for my flashlight, slipping
in pleather, a tattoo of a cockroach
gleaming on my lower back.
It’s only 1 a.m. as the ants
scuttle in the produce drawer.
**
Missing You Is One Drink Too Many
Sometimes a romantic gleam
is given off by neon lights
and sometimes she separates her slurs
with repeated words
with repeated words
she exits and hits the sidewalk
like a tree limb struck by lightning,
drool fizzling at the base of her mouth.
In the alley a quartet of barking dogs
leave echoes as dumpsters fill with the odds
and ends of the weekend. In the fetal position
she thinks of her buried husband, the hundreds
of pounds of dirt between them. And like last night
and the night before she is a fog of alcoholic energy,
gripped in unawareness
trying to feel like a happy-ever-after.
**
return to sawbuck 1.8
**
Noah Falck currently teaches Language and Thought in Dayton, Ohio. Some of his poems are forthcoming in LIT, Past Simple, Gulf Coast, Barn Owl Review, and elsewhere.
