My fiery reputation precludes me. I walk by a bookstore clerk and he frowns. I clerked in a bookstore and frowned all the time. My compulsive hobby was burning bridges. I outgrew the hobby of burning bridges. Now, I’m trying to rebuild those burned bridges. Burned bridges are impossible to rebuild. I thought of a friend—a burned bridge. She had died. I mourned that friend, that burned bridge, gone forever. Remorse lingers like the flames from burned bridges. And I linger, looking back at the ashes. I see that old friend waving and smiling. I see other smiles and waves in the ashes. My fiery reputation precludes me.
About the Poet:
David Spicer has published poems in Santa Clara Review, Moria, Oyster River Pages, The American Poetry Review, Ploughshares, Ephemeral Elegies and elsewhere. Nominated for a Best of the Net three times and a Pushcart twice, he is author of six chapbooks, the latest being Tribe of Two (Seven CirclePress). His second full-length collection, Waiting for the Needle Rain, is now available from Hekate Publishing. His website is www.davidspicer76.com