Old and Neglected Poem

She makes paint from moldy brick with the flavor
of advertisement and blood and

hair and bits of concrete raised

raised from the floor; she leaves them there
to wait to speak, there’s an offstage rumble

and this time it’s the furnace,

because it’s cold in the basement, even in summer,
and the girl is almost sleeping,

she cannot tell if the cobbles

lying covert beneath the street
have been buried or planted,

she is happy not to know,

as for the cobbles,
who can tell?

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About the Author

Recent work by Bruce Robinson appears or is forthcoming in Pangyrus, Evening Street Review, Rattle, Spoon River Poetry Review, Seventh Quarry, and Maintenant. He lives in Brooklyn and Albany, NY along with two cats, both of whom are trying to get published.

Bruce Robinson
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