Howie Good


The best music is inaudible,
a little boy pedaling his bicycle
after a delivery van.


It’s fashionable
to die young
and be pessimistic.

I myself prefer
a Vicodin
to the present,

until later,
when we’re anointing
the bed,

your breasts
floating above me

like the pink
and green

found only
in Ireland.


A farmer hid you from the Germans. You spent long, empty hours curled up inside a flower, resigned to headaches and insomnia. When you returned to Paris after the war, the people on the street were just shadows. You had finally discovered the color of the atmosphere. It’s dull yellow, almost pumpkin.


Howie Good, a journalism professor at SUNY New Paltz, is the author of the new poetry collection, Dreaming in Red, from Right Hand Pointing. All proceeds from the sale of the book go to a crisis center, which you can read about here.