by Fritz Eifrig
On the bus, Monday morning rush.
My mother calls to share
the news of my father’s death
about an hour ago.
Kilbourn Kostner Keeler
Doors are opening
My hands touch
the overhead strap, the cold
metal case of the phone,
and that’s real.
Ridgeway Central Park Kimball
We said our good-byes a week back
on a short FaceTime call after he’d decided
on his terminal steps, but I didn’t remember
to screenshot anything.
Addison Grace Byron
Please exit through the rear door
Texts to siblings and spouse, downloading
apps for flights and hotels,
fingers passing over pictures held
just behind smooth glass.
Belle Plaine Cullom Sunnyside
It was a year and more
of hospice and all the leaking, draining indignities
of steep decline, but still
a quiet kind of shock.
Leland Berwyn Balmoral
Doors are closing
The catalpas are starting to turn,
geese grazing on the quad, ‘Welcome
Freshman!’ banners still draped above the doors,
and I keep fumbling for my keys.
Fritz Eifrig has been writing poems for a little more than 40 years. His work has appeared in The Loch Raven Review, Afterhours, The Poetry Lighthouse, and the Ibbetson Street Magazine. He lives, works, and gardens in Chicago, Illinois.
Emerge Literary Journal 