LOST GLASSES by Howie Good

Why hope someone finds them,
steel-framed, plum-colored,

or regret you can’t make out
street signs without them,

why not consider yourself
freed from the necessity,

the situation as you know it
turning back into shadows,

and the shadows into gunmen
in topcoats and derbies.



Howie Good, USA

Gimme Fallout Shelter by Howie Good

The night was tricked out
in sequins, and why not

the moon in a fur-trimmed hood.
Ready? she said. She had

a voice like a lighted doorbell.
We both could remember a time

when grown-ups lived in fear
of the annual Soviet wheat harvest.

I uncovered my eyes.


Howie Good, New York, USA

Side Effects May Include by Howie Good

waking in the morning still drunk,
problems with zippers,

dull visits from the better angel of your nature,
self-attempts at a heart tattoo,

occupation by an army of mercenaries,
a neighbor who keeps goats,

fear of drowning in the bathtub,
curiously fat fingers, and, in severe cases,

a soul like a broken shoelace.


Howie Good, new York, USA

Working Life by Howard Good

My mouth flooded with blood
once I reached the age of reason.
Peacocks I never saw
shrieked at night in the trees.
I set my alarm for six.
In the morning my life was
right where I had left it.
I muttered to myself.
She grabbed a steno pad
and started making notes.
Women in face masks
stood at long tables
sorting pieces of the wreckage.


Howie Good, New York, USA

Extracts from a Revolution by Howard Good

The queen swallows poison
from the silver thimble

around her neck,
but the king trusts the stroke

of the executioner’s ax
will be clean and true.

Reports of miracles reach the capital
from throughout the kingdom:

love suicides returned to life,
God's voice turned to baby’s babble.

Exhausted celebrants,
stinking of drink,

sleep in the streets.
Now the secret police know

who the insomniacs are,

and the insomniacs themselves
just how interminable the night is.


Howard Good, New York, USA

Dead Bees Sting, Too by Howard Good

It feels more like summer, everyone says,
though only the naturalizing daffodils

have bloomed as I drag the garbage cans
around back, and then you’re there,

a peculiar, black-striped pebble of gold plush
that I nudge with the toe of my shoe,

half-suspecting some kind of ruse,

but the rebels in burlap masks have struck,
and the royal escort has fled,

and the gilded coach lies overturned and burning
on a remote road through the dark forest.


Howard Good, New York, USA

The True History Of Cinderella by Howard Good

Your cheek was pressed to the ground
as if listening for the heartbeat of the earth,

while the king’s soldiers took turns,
a dark wetness, and later, after they departed,

the spreading conviction that there was
a prince, ugly stepsisters, a glass slipper,

not just these medieval woods,

where, whenever you walk,
the weeping unicorn with the crumpled horn,

its throat slashed and bleeding,
offers its garish wound for you to kiss.


Howard Good, New York, USA

SCAR by Howard Good

I can’t explain how I got it
I was too young I don’t remember

and the people who might be
expected to know

they’re dead

It’s a kind of hieroglyph
unfathomable until

you touch me
here and here and here


Howard Good, New York, USA

The Enigma of Arrival by Howard Good

Night coming down,

and I’m crossing a bridge
where suicides wait their turn,

climbing steep stairs
that lead to no discernible good,

while the storyteller loses
the thread of his story

and you, who walk beside me
but whose face I can’t see,

pretend to be interested
in the sound of still leaves


Howard Good, New York, USA

A Sort of Song

Where the headstones
wait for our names

under marigold clouds

as leaky as pockets
turned inside out

what is what isn’t
requires more

discernment than
compasses possess

but just because
we can’t see them

pulsing

like the ragged red campfires
of cowboy angels

doesn’t mean love
the stars aren’t there


Howard Good, New York, USA

Job Interview Tip #3 by Howard Good

for Graham



They’ll ask if you have a thief’s heart,

a knife hidden in your boot,



something else you’d rather do.

I myself am bad at riddles,



but before you answer,

consider just how you’ll feel



when the towers begin to rise

and the sky turns impossible colors



from all the ash in the air.





Howard Good, New Paltz