GUY WALKING BY THE SIDE OF THE ROAD, poetry by Larry Smith

He’s wearing lite camos
walking toward town
in a rain slowly turning to snow.
He could be me, I hear myself think
and answer, Maybe he is. At 77,
you’re already near invisible.

I pull up, lower the window, and call,
“Hey, would you like a ride?”
He looks over, reads me and
walks on. No real love there.

 


 

LARRY SMITH is a poet, fiction writer, and editor-director of Bottom Dog Press. A native of the Ohio River Valley, his work echoes back to his sense of Appalachia, then and now. He is a professor emeritus of Bowling Green State University living peacefully along the shores of Lake Erie.

 

 

TRIBAL WISDOM, poetry by Larry Smith

“We are walking backward into the future.
We have to turn around.” — Inuit tribal leader

 

We run a tab at the store
forgetting to make a payment.

Columbia Records Club keeps calling
asking to be paid, but Mom hands us the phone.

It’s time to trade in the Buick for a hybrid
but Dad won’t hear of it.

We kids are tired of rear window watching,
can’t wait to drive this thing,

set our feet on solid ground and
move into our own place soon.

 


 

LARRY SMITH is a poet, fiction writer, and editor-director of Bottom Dog Press. A native of the Ohio River Valley, his work echoes back to his sense of Appalachia, then and now. He is a professor emeritus of Bowling Green State University living peacefully along the shores of Lake Erie.