I’ve no regret but memory.
Toothy hellos nodded to,
tight fists holstered hipside,
thoughts caught in the throat,
not nearly enough beer, cigarettes,
and that one rock I never toppled,
under which surely was a salamander
and not the ants crawling up my arm.
And some, some of the time spent alone.

But what’s most regrettable of all,
out of all the nothings happened, is that
by this ruminating I’m speaking not only of the past.

***

Carson Pytell is a poet living outside Albany, NY whose work has appeared in numerous venues online and in print. His short collection First-Year (Alien Buddha Press, 2020) and first chapbook Trail (Guerrilla Genesis Press, 2020) are now available.