I love those little traffic islands
where the lone sign or the few
stand like emaciated haiku poets
holding up their poems,
mournful, necessary poems that always
point the reader somewhere
far away and very near
with a few right words.
Some of the islands have names
like Lieutenant William Kelley, Jr. Square, honoring those who died,
perhaps young, perhaps barely old enough to drive,
and perhaps in love
with someone far away and very
driving around on a Saturday night, thinking
of a boy stationed on an island
in the middle of nowhere
dreaming of peacetime, dreaming
of making love to her right there
on a beach of that island,
one of its blue flowers breathing
its untranslatable name
in her hair.
Paul Hostovsky has new poems appearing or forthcoming in Free Lunch, New Delta Review, Bryant Literary Review, Visions International, Nebo, Slant, FRiGG, Driftwood, Heartlodge, Rock & Sling, ByLine and others. He works in Boston as an Interpreter for the Deaf.