by | Issue #5, Poetry

I’m listening to Gerry Rafferty
and I’m thinking to myself,
who the fuck is Gerry Rafferty,
and what the fuck is “Right Down the Line?”
‘Cause I can’t tell who’s sore,
and there’s no rippin’ off the bandaid
with the first big scene,
you gotta drag it out and feel that one
for a year or two, and then
take the calloused bit of love in
your masturbating hands,
rip it up like rye
and toss it carelessly
into the river like Nepomuk
on his worst day.

Cole Henry Forster lives and writes in Montreal, QC. He has been alternately a cook, a grad student, and an officer in the navy, but all along a poet. His work has appeared in magazines and literary journals in Canada and the United States.