To the Artist's Page To our home page
To Eric Hoffman's previous piece To Eric Hoffman's next piece
Evening News (for Steve) There's been too many long nights, too many cigarette butts poached, too many two o'clock a.m. hours spread blue across bedsheets in sleepless expectancy. Money matters. Sometimes girls don't. Factory air hangs from here to Crete like sky. I'm alive, drinking old wine and remembering when I lived in the daily sighs at sight of a woman's small back creased across a morning yawn. Yes, baby, I lost my middle class to a slot machine, my youth to big city, FM radio dreams. Time now alludes to hard work, a steady string of unfriendly girls, cheap food and sad evening news. Fast roads lead from here, windswept by weeds and names of distant places. Too many laundromats, and mid-town taverns, too much sky and snow – clocking in, clocking out, coming home again and again and again. And, maybe for a moment, the wind will pause just west of Crete, snow won't fall on Sunday night, and she'll return by way of love on roads I almost left Omaha by – toward sun, toward city, toward home.
To the top of this page