Three Poems & Two Collages
Andrew Weatherhead

The Future
I don’t have much
free time anymore, but
sitting alone, listening
to this empty room,
I can hear the sound
furniture makes
when furniture wants
to be heard – like
a band aid doing
it’s job, a roommate’s potato
sprouting tubers,
or drooling on
a clean pillow –
these victories so tiny
they aren’t really
victories at all.


At The Walt Whitman Rest Stop in Southern New Jersey
The trees to the west, elm
maybe, are turning brown.
They’re dying.
The trees to the east, also
dying, cover the entire
turnpike in shadows. It’s 7am
on a Friday in October.
I had pretzels for breakfast
and a 5-hour energy thing
but that was two hours ago.
Overhead, a hawk
conveys a shrill desire.
I tangent an enormous circle.
The radio says the Giants
play the Titans
on Sunday. The radio tells me
what I already know.


End of Summer
even the dogs
don’t like it
nothing new
and not getting old
like Han Shan
without a still mind
I watch leaves fall
in a dusty park
earlier I was sure
I wanted a pretzel
but now I know
I’d like a swift death
and no landlord
is a good landlord
so, like
a bad method actor
I packed up my things
and left