by Chris Abbate


Glassy September morning,
ripe bananas on a sun green porch,
candles in the shape of “32”
on a cake my wife baked.
She lights them and sings.
I make a wish,
blow them out,
pack shaving cream and a razor
for the afternoon flight to Frankfurt,
meeting agenda, camera, map to Goethe’s home.
I’m sorry you have to go away today,
she’s brushing her quiet blonde hair
soft slice of bundt on a bone-colored dish
dip my spoon into a bowl of Cheerios
cat begs for a fingertaste
opens her mouth
emits only a soft breath
TV shows buildings
charred like cigarettes
people jumping
we, you and I, under attack they say
brushing stops
don’t go they say
milk drips
I swallow my heartbeat
anonymous nightmare
the air sighs>


Author’s Bio:

Chris Abbate lives in Framingham, MA and works in Boston as a programmer for a medical device company.  He has a B.A. in English from Gordon College and an M.A. in English from Southern Connecticut State University.  Chris has been writing short fiction and poetry for the past 15 years and his poems have appeared in The Aurorean and Spare Change News.  Chris attributes his inspiration to the members of his local writer's group as well as to the numerous poetry readings he has attended since living in the Boston area.