In an authentic drawl
“I should have been a country record producer,” he said
between puffs on his cigarette. It was a familiar
lament, and I responded as I usually do.
“Why is that, Dad?”
“Because I know that when you resort to strings,
you’re either desperate or dead.”
The circus came and went.
A one-night stand in a nondescript town.
The advance publicity consisted entirely of
posters nailed to telephone poles.
The trucks arrived in the morning,
the tent went up in the afternoon,
and by midnight the lot was empty.---
I recently subscribed to The Lilliput Review, a poetry journal produced only in print (quaint) and featuring poems no longer than ten lines. These two poems meet that simple criterion, though I'm reluctant to submit them. Never done that before.