top of page
a literary arts journal
Tom Hanks's Fetish
Mark Gosztyla
for typewriters made the news again today.
Salt discovered on your upper lip when
leaning in for a kiss I tasted what’s left
of morning’s walk on the beach of our shared
history. The fog rolling in even as
tide rolls out. “It’s not your fault,” you say, to
what I can’t remember, distracted by
un-ironic wearers of bucket hats,
hiding their heads and smartphones under towels
to escape summer’s glare. I don’t know, I
think now; I bought a black suit, then everyone
around me started dying. I stare
at my reflection in the hotel room
mirror behind which clipboard holders take
glum note of every breath. It’s an old show.
bottom of page