Stacie McCall Whitaker - Stone Coast, Maine


It’s a torn bag,

spilled trash in the rain.

It’s a raccoon fight in the alley.


It’s a wasp on a hotdog,

the soldier and his nightmare,

a bent envelope, a dry daisy.


It’s the dog locked in a hot truck,

a broken window,

the likely story.


It’s a crisis in your car,

a mapless man with your keys, again,

and two routes to the one town brewery.


It’s a fever in bed,

a stain like the face of a president

on the ceiling.


It’s freight on long tracks,

sparks from the brakes,

curves rolling.

About the Author

Deborah Kelly is an emerging poet whose professional work has been writing on behalf of non-profit organizations. She is a native of Minneapolis who studied, worked, and raised her family in Chicago. For almost 20 years, however, the high deserts and mountains of the West kept calling. She now lives in Boulder, Colorado.