by David Linklater
Mother, look where I’m at now.
I miss being there, rolling pen on paper
regarding the matter.
The carpet’s out the window threatening to jump.
My shoes are hot and split.
Help me out of this jam, mam.
The days are like derelict
warehouses full of fine art.
Father, must all men work forever?
With all these things that go
the engines give sooner or later.
I never feel fear in the car but when I step out.
Good thinking is done on wide bends
with it all there in front of you.
How many thousands of miles have you thought, dad?
I’ve thought a few on this curve I’m leaning,
catching the heel of the horizon.
David Ross Linklater is originally from the Highlands of Scotland and now lives in Glasgow. He is an MFA candidate at the University of Glasgow is working toward a collection of poetry.