by Matt Prater
It’s July. You’re alone. Upstairs.
A storm is coming in: green-grey,
but yellow on the wallpaper’s
crest of checkered flowers.
The air is a garden air:
green too, & cool-electric.
Your chair is a wicker chair.
The cat has scratched it.
In your attic there’s a trumpet,
green on the bell from disuse.
You sit. You play. He is still alive.
There are tomatoes on the skillet.
Matt Prater is a writer from Saltville, VA. His work has appeared in Hampden-Sydney Poetry Review, Poet Lore, Appalachian Journal, and Hare’s Paw, among other publications.
Hawaii Pacific Review 