Peach Nehi Poem

The VHS tapes piled up in the closet
of a psychic in the dead of winter,
when business is booming from accumulated boredom.
The dust in the reels had various scents
that could lead you to the Coke can with prints
or the right-sized shoes walking into frozen bushes,
looking like canceled chandeliers in the park.

The town had elected the old mill for mayor
for the last century as an apolitical gesture
for a place where people mind their own business
and only put metal rakes into your neck
every ten years or so; in between is peach Nehi
shaken to a molten climax on the gym floor.
You could barely yank the rubber on your shoes
from the sticky mess, pooling into the bleachers,
no wax until the end of Christmas break.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.