Untitled Poem 1
By Carl Annarummo


The roof was more of a sponge. Without the services, some call them
utilities, we all slept at the kitchen table abutted to the oven. In
it there’d been set a fire that had since extinguished. I poked one of
the mustaches to my left and motioned for him to break off some more
wood from the gutted backroom. If I go, you all come, too, he said. So
we all said ok as we huddled in the backroom, under blankets, to the
lightning and the leaking roof, while the mustache took a sledgehammer
to a useless stud. That’s when we heard the crackle and turned and saw
the pale orange of an engulfed oven. The mustache dropped the wood and
said, that solves that, and we all headed back to the kitchen where it
was warm. That’s when the storm was turned off and all you could hear
was what was left of the town circling the drains.

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