The slow gray flow of street
peters out in a circular pond,
rippling in asphalt eddies around
occasional tired looking weeds
breaching the surface from silty depths.

Five houses lay scattered as driftwood
on a waveless shore, burned skin
flaking in tiny curled shadows,
roofs weeping excess shingles
onto a hiss of dry grass.

A dog furred in nondescript brown,
tail down and straight, paces
with a slight limp, tongue drooping
like a faded rose petal ready to fall,
searching for a place to ford the current.



About the Author: Spencer Smith is a University of Utah graduate and works in the corporate world to pay the bills that poetry doesn’t pay (i.e., all of them). His work has appeared in over forty literary journals, including Main Street Rag, Potomac Review, Plainsongs, RHINO, and Roanoke Review.