When Hope Cries Out, It’s Usually Contained in Something It Shouldn’t Be

like how today at work someone calls
and asks me if the hospital accepts
old wedding dresses, because her mom
recently passed and she found hers
in the attic. The dresses can be used
for stillborn babies. After my shift is over
I take a walk and find a crock pot
in the street. When I look inside
there are scratch-offs. I imagine a witch
trying to brew a potion that would make
the economy fall in love with my city.
I guess she gave up before it was finished.

*

On My Way to AA, a Pickup Truck Raced by Me With an Iranian Flag Waving Out the Window

During the meeting, I couldn’t pay attention.
I was thinking about what my friend said
at the bar this past weekend, that she makes
her son carry his passport at all times.
I shouldn’t even have been at a bar
but everywhere feels heavy these days.
The other night, I dreamt that our dictator
died from eating an entire nursing home.

*

The Melting Snow Revealed a Massive Pile of CDs Someone Had Dumped Near the Psychiatric Asylum

I stared at a Mighty Mighty Bosstones album
isolated from the rest. Cigarette butts had formed
a ring around it and I thought about rituals to summon
the dead. It’s tough when your remaining friends
stop including you. Later that night, right before
they closed, I was at Tim Hortons getting coffee
when the employee gave me a free donut. I was
on the verge of tears, but I knew he just didn’t want
the baked goods to go to waste.

*

Justin Karcher (Twitter: @justin_karcher, Bluesky: @justinkarcher.bsky.social) is a Best of the Net- and Pushcart-nominated poet and playwright from Buffalo, NY. He is the author of several books, including Tailgating at the Gates of Hell (Ghost City Press, 2015). Recent playwriting credits include The Birth of Santa (American Repertory Theater of WNY) and “The Buffalo Bills Need Our Help” (Alleyway Theatre). justinkarcherauthor.com