Seven Beds
Steel Animals That Eat Men
They seem like meat-eaters lined in the parking lot. My old Freightliner somewhere near the middle, the steel animal that held me in its belly for so long while someone waited, and then didn’t.
Lunch On Next To The Last Day
Tilted you back in the bend of my elbow, smelled lunch on your lips. You said you could hardly remember what we ate. You laughed, you moved your lips against mine, lightly, no pressure, only lunch. When I think of it I become sick.
A Good Day
Hot garbage thick in corners, it is days loading furniture, finding proof. Tossed panties from the tip of my finger, a broken robin I’ll keep.
After Dating Advice From Friends
You can drive. I’d rather not. A draft. I drink. Do you? Nothing? Not even wine coolers? The food was good, too. You have nice lips. Okay, then. Are you sure? You have really, really nice lips.
Brown Bottles and Silver Cans
My mouth waters for her, for this, a mix, shaken, stirred. For her, shaking, stirring.
Seven Beds
When I left the old house, seven of my friends agreed to rotate and give me a place to stay. They figured a week would give me enough time. It didn’t, and friend number one isn’t answering.
Visitation
Late Sunday nights I take to the truck lot when it gets bad. My old ride, parked since Friday, is full now, heavy in all that black mud and darkness.
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Sheldon Lee Compton survives in Kentucky. His work has appeared in places such as Emprise Review, Monkeybicycle, Pank, Keyhole, Staccato Fiction and some 60 other journals.
