What Comes Next
For Grandad Richard
the war is over
and the good guys came home
to spread uniforms among
the acres of fertile
plush they called a home
Levittown being Patient X
in this charade of progress
rows and rows split
by asphalt and sod
you’d think this is how a prison is made
then the architects came without
a warrant but did it anyway
refacing decades-old facades
and bombed-out steel mills
change with the times
slinging architectural jargon
up with the cranes
appeasing those mounds we call
land developers
sorry grandad your life was full of mirth
and I was a bad grandson
but that one fishing trip was enough
and I remember the hook in my shirt
time to time and laugh
thinking how blue the sky was
and the water it reflected
hope you like what you see
cause I see them change every week
I hold the prototypes in rolls
and how often do I want them
piled into a teepee and lit up
Talking to Plants
The plant hanging in neighbor’s window
tells me everything
I need to know about life
and things that wilt in the frost
oh I imagine humans wouldn’t
be capable of coldbloodedness
for the risk is too great
the stakes too high
the ability to love
and to grow by sun and sin
and the smog cloud
will come for us all
in due time so keep
your family and friends by the
fire and burn one appendage
at a time so you’ll
appreciate the life given
and miss the flash entirely
The boy sleeps
The boy sleeps with his head
cradled in the nook
of a plane window
colliding angelic mountains
A plain that is crossed
trodden iced feet
he is no Apollo that
could catch up.
Replenished cycle
of air to lung
as he sleeps sound
turbulent woes dispersed
Too far above for Satan to grab
the boy doesn’t clench
the boy doesn’t squirm
the boy doesn’t speak
as if this was his calling
his one and only reprieve
His shout towards God
to let go of himself
streams of air
like grains through his fingers
and lands the pin
onto the heart
A deluge
Someone in a Qatar Airlines just took off
on their best life
while you’re staring at life in the rear view
awaiting a ticket
rain trickling down the window
as you speed enough to graze
the tail
it’s hard to be Washington
when no one threw you in the water
deeper than two feet
quelling the 5-alarm fire
smoldering within us
and that’s the irony of it all
as you raise the chalice to lips
life and wonder
time waits for no one
and the rain still falls
as loud as it wants to
even if you refuse to
Listen
Josh Dale is a bicyclist, beer enthusiast, Bengal cat dad, open mic goer, and an MA candidate at Saint Joseph's University. His work and press have appeared in 48th Street Press, Breadcrumbs Mag, Huffington Post, Page & Spine, vox poetica, and others. He’s the founder and editor-in-chief of Thirty West Publishing House with two chapbooks and a poetry collection, Duality Lies Beneath (Thirty West 2016).