The night is a sieve that separates the rain
from the ghosts who deny death by heavy precipitation.
I’m the private eye catching the voices
jumping from windows. Carry them in my London Fog
or return them to their rightful owners
depending on the severity of the reward.
Quit this 2nd hand smoke of a life, take a job
at a piano bar. Sing the words from the voices
I kept. All the soul-faced ladies recognize
their own parts. They pay me to be forgotten.
– Kyle Hemmings
Kyle Hemmings lives and works in New Jersey. He has been published in Your Impossible Voice, Night Train, Toad, Matchbox and elsewhere. His latest chapbooks are Underground Chrysanthemums from Red Bird Press and Terminal from White Knuckle Press. He blogs at http://upatberggasse19.blogspot.com/