We were at each other’s throats
or puka shells.
The bells of Saint Martin
reminded us to drop
a few coins into the parking meter,
to stop sweating
the small stuff.
We had puffed up parts of ourselves
and allowed other parts
We were into each other like birthday
cake or locomotives.
About the contributor: Glen Armstrong holds an MFA in English from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and teaches writing at Oakland University in Rochester, Michigan. He edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters and has two new chapbooks: Simpler Times and Staring Down Miracles. His work has appeared in Sonic Boom, Conduit, and Ræd Leaf Poetry
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