It’s a Process

Night turns to day 
and all the puddles dry up. 
Thumbtacks stuck in the felt 
of the piano hammers. Wind 
chime so battered by the gale 
that it sounds deranged. 
Everyone learning to march 
in unison. For me one drink 
is all it would take. Not my father 
though. Go one week without shaving, 
and there it is. A beard. The words 
sense arrange and it all makes properly. 
Arrange the words properly and it all 
makes sense. Matches quietly 
waiting to come to life. Their heads 
ablaze with potential when they do. 
Cucumbers floating in water, vinegar, 
salt, garlic, and dill. The heel of your shoe 
rubbing and rubbing until a blister is raised 
like an objection. Stop picking at it 
or it will never heal. 

PATRICK MEEDS

Patrick Meeds lives in Syracuse, New York and he studies writing at the Syracuse YMCA’s Downtown Writers Center. He has been previously published in Stone Canoe, the New Ohio Review, Tupelo Quarterly, Atticus Review, Whiskey Island, Guernica, The Main Street Rag, and Nine Mile Review, among other places.