White Print Inc

the crow flies over the city at dawn.
his eyes are tuned to the green spaces between
the ruined buildings and crumbling houses.

with a flutter of wings,
the bird lands on the roof of an old house.
he hears voices, human and animal,
from in and around the house.

he knows them all -
and listens for a few minutes…
the stories, songs, and laughter
the plans and dreams,
the quiet voices behind closed doors.
the animal sounds, from hungry impatience,
to quiet contented murmurs.

with a loud call out to the day,
he takes flight, over the horizon.

a single black feather falls to the ground
in front of the door.

6

Scott Farrow

a sort of desolate, but beautiful kind of place-
an empty, flat acre between a truck stop and some
industrial building in a town on the boundary of two
southwestern states, coarse desert grass growing in
randomly-spaced clumps here and there.
in the middle of the lot, an abandoned car rests on flat tires,
it’s faded paint and dusty windows attesting to
its time there. it seems to have not been disturbed in years.
i awoke in the back seat,
roused by the desert heat beating in
through the dust on the windows.
i looked around the inside of the car-
i found a canvas jacket,
i put it on, shouldered my backpack,
and walked out to the road.

5

Scott Farrow

rain - streaked down rattling metal frame windows
train - rattling, shrieking, through grimy railyard
rain - washing oily rainbows from old blackened wood
train - old, cracked leather, passenger coughs
rain - wet smell washing the air
train - rolling into prairie sunlight
rain - summer grey thunder, sun breaking through
train - squeal of steel, platform, sign
rain - clouds covering the sunset
station - conductor, porter, driver
cab - tires hiss on wet street

4

Scott Farrow

write down your fears,
then strike a match,
watch them disappear,
and be reduced to ash.
then warm your hands
over the crackling flame.
then write of love and hate,
draw their faces,
write their names.
surrender them to the fire,
send their essence to the sky,
then hold them for a moment in memory,
and release them with a cry.

Scott Farrow

those bleak, desert-like areas that only
seem to exist on the outskirts of
midwestern prairie towns. tufts of dead
grass sticking up through a thin layer
of snow. rows of box-like cinderblock
buildings - stores, shops, restaurants,
and an occasional tavern -
their faded, peeling paint and exotic
motifs only emphasize their
hopelessness. i walk into one such
place - “the flying fish tavern” - its
plain unadorned counters and fixtures
displaying none of the nautical flavor
that the name suggests -i order a beer,
a bored waitress brings out a can and
pours it into a plain glass.
i attempt to make conversation with
the inhabitants,
but their apathy suffocates me.

3

Scott Farrow