Small green burrs
on the sleeve of my sweater.
Had he not shot himself,
Hemingway could have walked
the banks of this river.
Just two birds
and an empty wine jug
in the wind,
sing aloud
on this cloudy day.
"Where do you think
we'll be when we die?"
my wife asks me,
her long skirt flowing
like a cold river.
The end of this day
has ended summer itself.
At the food bowl,
our dog works her way
to her reflection.
With the strength of a bear
I screw a handle
onto the gate,
then watch the breeze
ease it open.
Andrew Riutta lives in rural Michigan with his wife, Lori, and their daughter, Issabella. He is currently working on a book of free verse titled 911 at the
Drive-In Theater. This summer, he won second place in the Tanka Society of America's annual contest.
Andrew Riutta lives in rural Michigan with his wife, Lori, and their daughter, Issabella. He is currently working on a book of free verse titled 911 at the
Drive-In Theater. This summer, he won second place in the Tanka Society of America's annual contest.