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All those stories about people who think
This is it, but it isn’t. The plane doesn’t crash,
the chest pain abates, the hoarse voice and
dry cough is just a cold. There’s the bloom
of spring: the service berry tree looks like
a huge albino peacock trying to impress
a lady bird, daffodils that sway hello
in summer’s subtle breeze, what
afternoon sun does to your porch floor.
There’s your dog who knows exactly where
she likes to be scratched and presents
her heinie in gleeful expectation. There’s
porkchops in rosemary vinegar reduction
and the feel of your wife’s cheek in
the middle of the night.

Then there’s when This is it is it.
No one reads that story which is stored
in the abyss, in the space between spaces,
in the White Hotel that has no rooms.


Charlie Brice is the author of Flashcuts Out of Chaos (2016), Mnemosyne’s Hand (2018), and An Accident of Blood (2019), all from WordTech Editions. His poetry has been nominated for the Best of Net anthology and twice for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared in The Atlanta Review, The Sunlight Press, Chiron Review, Plainsongs, I-70 Review, Mudfish 12, The Paterson Literary Review, and elsewhere. 

© 2020, Charlie Brice

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