in the pocket
of my Hawaiian shirt
a ticket stub—
has it really been that long
since I last saw her?
wind driven rain
strikes the weathered
old house
the sagging roof tells me
all I need to know
behind the orange juice
expired milk, pickles
and moldy cheese
there isn't
a last can of beer
I sleep on a pillow
sometimes two—
in my youth I thought
pillows were decadent
I still do
late at night
the sound of mousetrap
snapping shut
well, I'm not going to sleep
any better now
desiring something
other than bills and ads
in my mailbox
despite the editor's request
I send my poems snail mail
Michael Ketchek lives in Rochester, NY with his wife and teenage son. He spends his time playing disc golf with his son and hiking in the woods with his family. Otherwise, he spends his free time scrutinizing the box scores, reading, and having an occasional dark beer while listening to a Red Line Zydico, a band that has used lyrics he wrote in several of its songs.
Michael Ketchek lives in Rochester, NY with his wife and teenage son. He spends his time playing disc golf with his son and hiking in the woods with his family. Otherwise, he spends his free time scrutinizing the box scores, reading, and having an occasional dark beer while listening to a Red Line Zydico, a band that has used lyrics he wrote in several of its songs.