By John A. Nieves

Outside the duckpond does what it has

always done. The geese gather and prune

and chatter. I have always loved them, bobbing

there, but I’d never envied them. The heat kicks

on like an event, some shift in the sounds of the house

worth celebrating. The forsythia were fooled into

blooming, now the cold has turned their flowers

down. I have Under the Pink on the record

player. Tori sings now of melting

things. And I am taken by litany. I miss

you high fives and handshakes and beer

at the bar. I miss you person I haven’t seen

in years I happen past in the library. I miss you

library. I miss coffeeshop chatter and other

people’s spontaneous laughter, taking for granted

being able to say hi to someone’s face, throwing an errant

ball back to its owner. But mostly, I miss everyone

who will go missing while we are missing so much.

John A. Nieves has poems forthcoming or recently published in journals such as: North American Review, Copper Nickel, 32 Poems, American Literary Review and Massachusetts Review. He won the Indiana Review Poetry Contest and his first book, Curio, won the Elixir Press Annual Poetry Award Judge’s Prize. He is associate professor of English at Salisbury University and an editor of The Shore Poetry. He received his M.A. from University of South Florida and his Ph.D. from the University of Missouri.