Next Payment Due in February by Ed Skoog

It was like thinking

the same thing.

They won’t let you

smoke here anymore,

though last night, night itself

was pipe smoke

curling from his easy chair,

and also

drifting along the river:

fires in the encampments.

In my pocket, a knife,

red lighter, mask, spent

dryer sheet, quarter

with an obverse

image of Nebraska.

I am afraid of alcohol

and punishment.

When I was a child

I was a graffiti

of stuffed bear,

lemon-shaped light,

overall strap button and

clasp. Now I can see

days into the future.

What I thought was

a witch sorting mushrooms

in the leaves was just

mushrooms and leaves.

Backyard fences.

You are on my mind.

I am back in the house.

Is there a question in there?

Long wooden stairs

to the second floor,

tea on the stove,

a black cat moving.

Survival’s more

what moves than stays.

When a door opens

everything enters,

clothes fall to the floor,

a story going with you

when you leave,

the difference between

seeing a costume and wearing it.

When there was no light

storms came out of the radio.

Packages stack up,

but now I live next door.

You can’t write

one thing and think another.

Cigarette butts in houseplants.

How much fun it used

to be, but not much

happens when you wear

a captain’s hat. Wait

here while I have an idea

for a poem, the live

version, and I’ll make

any kind of sandwich you want.

_________

Ed Skoog is author of four collections of poetry, most recently Travelers Leaving for the City (Copper Canyon Press, 2020). His poems have appeared in The New Yorker, Harper's, Paris Review, and elsewhere. He lives in Portland, Oregon