James R. Brown
Sunday Morning
A Sunday morning,
A drunk Sunday morning,
Smoking in my car
At a gas station
Just before dawn,
Feeling at the
End of something,
I turned on the radio.
And there it was, four songs,
Chopin wrote from Polish dances.
The Mazurkas, the man said.
I leaned back in the pleasure of smoke,
My narrow life opening a little.
Bio
James Brown lives and teaches English in Savannah, GA. His poems have appeared in The Apple Valley Review, Aurora Review, Outlet, The Blue Collar Review and others.