Ballard Street Poetry Journal

He sits in the passenger seat with a stare I don't understand,
mouth open and hands on his knees. I need to focus
and watch the road but the twitch of his left arm catches my glance.

Crumbs of chocolate cookies rest on his gray sweater
and his mouth opens like a full moon staring down the highway.
I place my right hand upon his and smile. He closes his mouth,

drops his head, and turns his palm over to face the sky.
He locks his fingers in mine as if he is trying to get back
a small handful of that grass we slept in yesterday afternoon.

Kellie Cannon is a writer living in North Carolina with her husband and dog, Wilma. She received her MFA in Creative Writing at Emerson College in Boston, MA. She teaches composition and literature at Coastal Carolina Community College. Her poetry has previously appeared in Tapestry, Kennesaw Review, and WordRiot.