THE WORLD

by Sharon Fedor

But The World was less than a mile from home, and there, in sets, I used to listen to the bands. So the keyboard player must have brought a Clavinet to perform near the ceiling where the stage was located. Could they not have brought that stage closer to earth? The floor? And who owned The World? A Coop? A Conglomerate? The Horns? And where in that crowd of motley disciples, upped and downed, dancing and freaked, went those years?  Why the change? Never a blatant celebration. Never a drunken brawl (no alcohol!)  And now? A blasted eardrum forgetting a note? A cell forgetting to duplicate perfectly? An airline ticket to someplace else? A degree? And where is the keyboard player? And what happened to his Clavinet? Decades pass, but the spirits hang near me. I imagine them as I drive by The World. My eyes see an empty warehouse, space without sound, dust. So I close my eyes, and a black blaring vortex sucks me through to the top, once more, with my buddies, I’m high.

Loss of Momentum

by Sharon Fedor

Across the highway a station stands
next to the weedy vacant lot. And in that lot,
on two wheels and cinder blocks,
a faceless car sits, paralyzed,
beside the busy road.
Rain bathes bare metal and thirsty weeds.
Mother and daughter,
we sit in the booth of the pizzeria
with slices and fountain cokes.
We are silent.
For a moment our bodies soften
and we see clearly into each other’s eyes,
then, we stiffen again
as you go on saying
you never wanted to learn to drive anyway.