Every Friday night we feature a short story, essay, personal narrative, poem,
spoken word, or short film for your enjoyment.
Tonight’s poem is from Charles F. Thielman
East facing bay windows
filigreed with ice,
city dawn ladles thin soup
into the mouths of illusions.
Vision carved by various hungers,
a sidewinder shrugs history up a dune.
Jet contrails furrow waking sky,
tracer bullets shot at dawn, this memory
of delivering Chicago Tribunes,
fingers darkened by newsprint,
scrubbing my hands.
Raising a flag to half-mast.
Charles F. Thielman lives in Santa Maria, California. Born and raised in Charleston, S.C., he moved to Chicago, educated at red-bricked universities and on city streets, he has enjoyed working as a social worker, truck driver, city bus driver and enthused bookstore clerk. His work has been published in many literary journals including The Pedestal, Pif Magazine, SLAB, among others. Three of his poems have been nominated for Pushcart Prizes.