by a contributor
My cab driver got emotional,
fearing the assassination of Ron Paul.
On 14th St., a dead body crossed my path.
I wondered if good things always come from Sysco.
Grand Central felt nocturnal at noon.
A horse stood in the snow and waved.
Our son was born holding a triangle of grapes
as a river ran through the Honda Accord.
We filled our plates with flowers and prayed.
A star above us glowed, but only after I screwed it in.
You smiled when the pipes began to crack
and started spending a lot of time on .
Flying United, your father put his finger on it
and your mother reclined completely.
You rejoiced by placing my iPhone on the Yule log.
I just sat there, wordlessly, and watched.
We used to proofread each other in the dark
until the adjectives in the dictionary deflated.
The television mentioned the winter solstice.
It said: can you hear me now?
Joe DeLuca lives in Brooklyn, New York, and works in advertising. His poems can be found in another tree house, somewhere in the backwoods of North Guilford, Connecticut, where he was raised.