Poetry on Lost Street is a monthly collaboration of some of the most dangerous, volatile and talented poets and essayists from around the Durant, Oklahoma area. Poetry on Lost Street, possibly the best-named poetry gathering of all time, usually meets on the third Sunday of the month at 2 p.m. at Lost Street Brewery at 109 W. Lost Street in downtown Durant.

Michelle Wears Little Red Mittens to Class 

by Richard R. Barron

My favorite thing about this book [holds up notebook] is that it’s falling apart.

Am I really in it for any of the right reasons? For all of the wrong reasons? Do I write in the quiet, alone, to be creative, or am I building a castle of words in anticipation of another visitor?

Why do we write? Should I change my modus? Stop Writing? Stop sharing it? Stop caring?

Sometimes my hatred is so pure it gives me chills. What does it change? Who changes their ideas and identity because I hate them? Who has ever changed me by hating me?

Do we then turn our hatred against ourselves because we are the only ones we can change?

Are we the only ones who are even listening?

Are we all just taping shadows into our scrapbooks?

This ratty, falling-apart notebook doesn’t compare by a tiny fraction to my ratty, falling-apart poetry.

Is this even a book of poetry? No! It is a book of anti-poetry; a book of wishes; a book of complaints;  a book of silence!

It’s too messy and it’s too neat.

It’s too careless and it’s too careful.

It’s too loose, and it’s too uptight.

Should I stop on a bridge on the way home today and stand at the edge, tearing this book to shreds by hand, scattering it onto the heads of innocent strangers?

__________________________

Sitting on the floor in her den, close enough to smell her hair or even kiss her, one of us mentions the lunch we just shared. She smiles and says, “Heaven!” and lifts her eyes to the camera. Fade to black.

__________________________

I put my arms around another man’s wife as she stood at the kitchen sink, rinsing dishes.

I pulled her close, pressing into her back and shoulders, my face close to her hair and neck.

She reached up with one hand and took ahold of my arm. I felt us both relax, almost melting together. The water in the sink ran. Ten seconds passes and we did not move, and she did not pull away.

I pressed my lips to her ear and said, “Your hair smells good,” meaning, “I am in love with you.”

“Thank you,” she said, meaning, “I’m in love with you too.”