Two fishing poles, a feather,
a leather jacket with holes
on both elbows, forty-four
dollars and change in
an envelope, some dope,
a pair of worn out cowboy boots,
a clay flute shaped like a bird
that can’t whistle a tune worth a lick,
an unused bus ticket, a picture
of two kids laughing pretending
to fly; an eyelash in my eye.
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Rick Richardson is a professional archaeologist, an avid reader, dog lover, father, and poet. Rick lives on the coast of North Carolina. His poetry has been published in the University of San Francisco’s The Ignatian Literary Magazine and The Ginosko Literary Journal.
