Peter Desy


He was telling himself the same
stories, small myths at first,
that slightly raised his expectations.
He's slip from the house some night,
enter a widow's small apartment
and slip silently into bed beside her,
stroke her dark shoulders heaving with an
unnameable sorrow, whispering 'I know, I know..."
He's prepare the world for a great calamity
in which millions would perish. He'd still
their fears with the raising of a palm,
infinite sadness in his eyes,
brushing aside fame and praise.

Obeying a prescience, when he played the lottery
he picked only prime numbers.
He strolled about with a depth in his eyes,
waiting for his moment, for the ladder
to descend. Then a bright justificaiton
would imbue the air, his triumph at hand.
Though the new century had barely begun, he was
ready for his Gotterdamerung to strike up.
His license plate read REDY ONE.

Peter Desy has been nominated for two Puschart Prizes (The Iowa Review, Rattle) and has poems recently in or forthcoming from Green Mountains Review, Shenandoah, Poetry International, Iron Horse Review, South Carolina Review and other journals.


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