2 poems by Evan Iresmith

There, There

You’re Yonkers lonely:

a pile of spent Sundays,

why-am-I-heres and pull-

ing-up-drives, you know,

just to turn around. When’s

the last time you felt new?

No spirit waves your

banner in the dark; no

name echoes in your

skull like a bead in a tin

cup. Maybe you need

a rousing hobby like

knitting, beatboxing or

oversharing. Hey, who

knows what song could

stand in for actual heart-

ache? Not one, if you

don’t learn the mandolin.

Don’t sweat it, buddy.

I’m just a more perceptive

version of you. I might

be speaking like a weird old

sky, but listen: take your

homelessness to modern

Crete. Drift. Taste literal

honey. A bad problem

to have isn’t lostness.

Mysterious voice over.

For a while, now. Go.


Away Game

My lungs run up and down the driveway

doing layups against gravity and the ghost

of John Havlicek. I score too many times to

count, but if you need to know, it’s thirteen

to sixteen to twelve. Winning isn’t the only

thing, but yeah, I do that. Three teams are

playing at once because this is frontyard

basketball, son. Rules are rules, whatever you

think those are. My team’s wearing hangglider

pants and angelic wings (skyblue), and we

call ourselves the October Novembers. Like

Havlicek’s squad, the Wind, and my shadow’s

team, the Everywhere-I-Don’t-Knows, we don’t

hail from any place in particular: we just wear

the stripes as they fall. Man, the sun’s about

to head home, away from mine. With six

seconds left, I pass the ball to a baseline angel…

five seconds …who soars past thirtyfive defen-

ders… four …a pet deer… three …and a

towelboy, literally a boy made of towels…

two …and the ball arcs through the cold air,

like a briefly held infinity, a spun world in golden

light… one …and slips through the net like

nothing, almost nothing at all. It’s halftime.

I slap limbs with my center, the tallest tree.


Published by

Jeremiah Walton

Jeremiah Walton is wary of writing a bio.

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