Flying Island

Ambulance Graveyard by Thomas Alan Orr Where the highway bends toward sunset, before the bridge and along the river, no lights flash, no klaxons wail. They sit abandoned, these chariots of mercy splashed with blood-colored rust, now slipping into the silt like a patient going under – a fifty-nine C-10 Suburban strewn with empty vials and I-V bags, a newer Kenworth on its final run when a tractor-trailer bashed it in. Crows like mourners gather atop the hoods as though on coffin lids. Offer thanks for service rendered, the gift of succor in distress, just as the foreign visitor said, amazed, “ In America the ambulance really comes!” But these will come no more, bereft of precious human cargo now, though haven of a different kind, home to skunks and coons and river otters leaping scattered tires. Wild blackberries grow in the grill, feeding squirrels, mice, and birds. Life prevails. Two kids salvage an old chrome horn that...

Truck Stop Dog by Thomas Alan Orr Wingo lounges in the grass under tulip trees near the Ready Go truck stop along the interstate near Indianapolis. He’s headed for Denver (only he knows why), waiting on his ride. Here comes Toledo Jake in his big Kenworth T660. Wingo jumps aboard, head out the window, tongue lolling, wind tearing at his ears, Jake shifting into high gear, wheels whining. The open road is all that matters. West of Abilene, Jake is on the radio checking highway patrol with a tanker out of Bismarck, a flatbed out of Tulsa. Wingo slurps Cheerios and milk in the sleeping berth, content. They cruise into the pit stop near mile marker two-sixty-five and Wingo is out the door. On the knoll, a pretty cur wags her tail and off they go, Denver deferred, Jake shouting, “ Adios, hermano!” He sighs and gazes wistfully after Wingo, chasing love on the open road. About the poet: Orr's most recent col...

Indiana Badlands by Thomas Alan Orr He wears a hat made of sky and walks his cougar through the corn. A buzzard circles overhead. Now is not the time to ask his name. A woman watches from the doorway. She clutches a tiny cameo and her Bible hides a derringer. Love will test her vigilance. It could be midnight. It might be noon. Time plays every trick it knows out here. Light moves, they say, like a ghost across level ground. The harrowing is hard, the furrows slaked with tears. Beware the walking man. Give solace to the one who waits. Bio: Thomas Alan Orr's poems have appeared in Good Poems , edited by Garrison Keillor, and other anthologies and journals. His poetry has also been read into the record of the Maine State Legislature. His first book of poems was Hammers in the Fog . He is finishing a second book under the working title, Tongue to the Anvil .

Crossing Into Iowa by Don Nelson On steel rails westbound horn blaring crossroad, corrugated grain bin, winter wheat flea market, back lot spray painted track-side junk yard, small town water-tank cash crop cell tower, power line signal arm gas truck crossing gate lone tree corn stubble, waterfront steel bridge river barge mark twain sand bar Mississippi milestone. Bio: Don Nelson is from South Bend In. He is a graphic designer specializing in magazine design. He studied visual communication at Herron School of Art and Design and was a graduate student at the University of Notre Dame (communications arts). Act of God by Thomas Alan Orr When the Mississippi crested at Cairo, Illinois, they called in the army to blow the levee, sparing the town and flooding a hundred thousand acres of farmland, doing, the old Mennonite said, what the military does best, wreaking havoc in service to the greater good, a man’s livelihood in exchange for a bel...

How to Steal a Piano: A Prose Poem by Thomas Alan Orr Carefully, of course.   Keep this in mind: you must not be tempted to play “Heart and Soul” or “Chopsticks” as you lower her through a window on pulleys at two in the morning.   Don’t let her bang against the side of the building on the way down lest she belly forth with fragments of Chopin or Jelly Roll Morton.   Most say the stronger man should stay above, working the ropes, but you need more muscle down below in case a wind comes up and she starts to kick and buck.   You don’t want to waste time picking up sharps and flats on the street.   Tuck her into the bed of the truck and wrap her well. Nobody likes a chilly upright or a cold baby grand.   Wool socks on the pedal lyres keep her quiet.   And don’t drop the fallboard on your fingers or else you’ll be singing.   Driving through rough streets, avoid the potholes or the whippen will come loose, composing melodies to charm a ghost. ...