Image by Teresa Howes

because what else were you supposed to do
wait for her to check-in at the pearly gates

just because she was your one
cigarette per day that summer

because she grinned like a slinky
could unbutton your jeans without breaking eye

contact you’re supposed to wait – some sailor’s
ghost in your desk chair – the distant creeping of

a newsfeed the crinkled
firmament beneath your skull


Sam Preminger would rather have been born a moth, even if it meant drowning in your kitchen sink. He lives in Albany, NY, is afraid of his basement, and often imagines himself lost at sea. His writing can be found in The Blue Route, Gandy Dancer, Perspective Magazine, and scribbled on napkins throughout New York State.

Back To Issue #38


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