Poetry — February 25, 2015 10:27 — 0 Comments

Oma at Night – Bob Sykora

Something’s missing in Los Angeles.
The nights swollen blue
with busyness. Not animals, not smells,
not shrieks across glowing pastures.
Just bus rides, so many bus rides,
and the dripping headache of the factory:
sewing, folding, sewing, folding.
There’s no room for ghosts
in all the noise, all the machines.
No spooks in alarm clocks and televisions
and microwave ovens. Midnight
never smiles or takes shapes and goes meddling
in the barn, rousing the horses. Dawn
comes before any ogres can take
her away. No need
to tie down the moon
to keep the night from ending.


Bob Sykora is currently an MFA candidate at the University of Massachusetts Boston and the poetry editor for Breakwater Review. In a previous life he was a high school teacher. He may have left his heart in Chicago. He can be found at bobsykora.tumblr.com

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What am I?

Bioluminescent eye
That sees by the shine
Of its own light. Lies

Blind me. I am the seventh human sense
And my stepchild,

Scientists can't find me.

Januswise I make us men;
Was my image then—

Remind me:

The awful fall up off all fours
From the forest
To the hours…

Tick, Tock: Divine me.

-- Richard Kenney