Last Call by Jake St. John

gutter

Last Call

it’s 1:50 a.m.
and I don’t know
if I’m here or there
the city moans
in the moonlight
the same cats
dragging their tails
in the street
an old newspaper
tumbles into the gutter
a desolate theater
of bricks

I don’t know
where I’ve been
this wave of dizziness
unavoidable
like a trip
down memory lane
a scattering of dreams
fluttering like dead leaves
in the stale twilight air

12717226_10153457618953063_7225597431489508658_nJake St. John writes out of New London, CT and is the author of several collections of poetry and pamphlet poems including, Rotations (Night Ballet Press, 2015), I Talked To The Moon (Wandering Head, 2012), and Change of Address (Unarmed 2010). His work has appeared in numerous literary and arts magazines such as, The Blue Collar Review, Big Hammer, and The People’s Tribune. Since 2007 he has served as the editor of Elephant and co-editor of Flying Fish.

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