Scott Urban

The September Editor's Pick Poet is Scott Urban

Please feel free to email Scott at: surban1874@yahoo.com

PHOTOBOMB
Zaleski Forest. Vinton County.

They had pulled off the road
minutes before I drove by.

Her smile was so wide
I imagine he must have just proposed.

She hugged him as tightly
as ivy clings to the masonry.

The breeze blew back her hair
in a blond pennant of surrender.

They stood on the pebbly shore
of (and I can’t make this up) Lake Hope

and smiled for the gleaming
grey lens of the smartphone

he held out, trying to blindly frame
their dawngold happiness.

And for a tenth of a second
my hands wanted to jerk the steering wheel

plow into him with my grille
shatter his vertebrae into puzzle pieces

propel him into the November water
from which he wouldn’t be able to drag himself

cleave her hip, scour her perfect brow and cheeks
warpaint red against jagged gravel.

I’d exit the car, crouch beside her like a jackal,
put my arm under her shoulders,

and bring her bruised lips to my ear.
She’d wheeze ‘why . . . why?’

I’d want to say something,
but instead I’d pull out my digital camera

and snap the pair of us, making sure to get
the scarlet froth leaking from the corner of her mouth.

PISSPENNY

So someone came in
and ordered a chocolate shake;
then, change in hand,
he decided he needed to take a leak.
He either dropped a penny
or let it slip between his fingers—
a miniature urinal cake—
into the stained porcelain bowl.

I didn’t notice it
until I had unzipped
and was ready to let go.

So this stranger,
someone I never met,
forced me into this
tiny act of revolt.

I knew it was more than
just a little bit disrespectful,
but I couldn’t help whizzing
on Honest Abe’s startled face;
a faint coppery tang
overlying the stink
from the nearby stall.

“TOURISTS ON FLORIDA SCUBA DIVE LEFT BEHIND”
October 4, 2011, off Miami Beach

you surface
only to find
a broader blue span
in which to drown

might as well
not even shout
or add the salt of your tears
to the brine

chin, cheeks,
forehead, bald spot:
giblets broiling
under a rotisserie sun

atlantic spiked
with the incisive right angles
of sharks’ teeth

all you recall
is being six and hiding from mom
in the middle of the dress rack in sears

when you finally emerged
she was nowhere to be seen

and now you remember
how empty and open

the world can be

Scott Urban lives amid southeastern Ohio’s mist-shrouded forests and occasionally writes things down. His most recent collection is God’s Will (Mad Rush Books), available through the bookstore at Lulu.com. By day he works with troubled youth and by night he sleeps in an Amish farmhouse, which isn’t haunted—yet.

"Scott Urban paints words with raw energy and delivers a compelling experience." -- Jeani Rector

Scott's new book of fiction: Bloody Show now available HERE