Another Day



My toddler hears 

thunder for the first time.


The duckpond is mostly water,

not ducks.


Its smooth surface reflects

that which frequents it,


like a child proclaiming 

a favorite 


(a familiar?) color.

So, we say goodbye.


Tomorrow is a continuation.

It takes several calendar squares


for me write what I have

planned:


a fan belt for my car,

silver for my tooth.


As Far as the Eye Can See



He flew as far as the eye could see.

I’m not exactly sure which eye

or what it means, precisely, to “see.”

There’s so much that I don’t understand.


He flew as far as I could understand,

but he may have floated as fast as any

snowflake has ever floated before.

Brr . . . Now I’m both missing him and looking


for my sweater, my sweater that has put up

with my neglect and limited range

as a vocalist far too long.

He only flew when I flew, not counting


short trips, flung to the sofa or floor. 

I start an adventure and change my mind.





Rhinestone 


We’ve brought the Hot-Fix wand

to still time


with a final rhinestone,

but no one 


can get it to work.

We make one last attempt


to secure this sad, plastic heart


that pulses as we dance.


Glen Armstrong (he/him) holds an MFA in English from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters. He has three current books of poems: Invisible Histories, The New Vaudeville, and Midsummer. His work has appeared in Ambrosial Literary Garland, Ræd Leaf Poetry India,and Sonic Boom.